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SPIDER-WEBS IN VERSE 



A COLLECTION OF 



LYRICS FOR LEISURE MOMENTS 
SPUN AT IDLE HOURS 



BY 

CHARLES WILLIAM WALLACE 

Professor of Rhetoric and Literature 
Western Normal College 



"The spider's touch — how exquisitely fine!" 

—Pope. 



LINCOLN, NEB.: 

STATE JOURNAL COMPANY, PRINTERS 

1892. 



SfP 26 189^ 



hCO^ff^ 



I 






Copyright 1892 

BY 
C. W. WALLACE 



TO 

JUDGE T. D. WALLACE 

AND 

MRS. OLIVE WALLACE. 

My Dear Father and Mother: 

No word, no act, no consecrated gift of mine, how 
great or slight soever it may be, can ever repay the 
beneficence and love of you to whom I owe life and 
whatever of prosperity has been granted me. 

As my eyes glance in retrospect along the fading per- 
spective of years and lose themselves in the dim days of 
the cradle, and thence to the present look forwards to 
the distant peaks of hope that rise above unknown mists 
and shadows and horizons, I hear the counseling words 
of a father, and feel the ever-present touch of a mother's 
hand, as both guide me with love into the dim unknown 
of life. Though I pass onwards with a father's ' ' God- 
speed," and a mother's lingering embrace and loving 
kiss, and leave you both fondly looking after me, still 
your presence in my memory is ever a guiding reality 
that even now directs this good right hand of mine to 
inscribe these dedicatory words of filial affection. 

If in the days agone I ever seemed unheeding of that 
counsel of a father, and unmindful of that dearest love 
of a cherished and cherishing mother, I can but say that 



iv DEDICA TION. 

both that counsel and that love reach through those 
moulding and shaping years of my life and take hold on 
my heart with a firmness and a gentleness that nothing 
else of all the years can boast. 

It is but right and just, therefore, that in these your 
later days I should likewise be your guide and your 
stay in so far as my hand may let ; — that I should reach 
out my strong young arm and steady the tottering years 
that throng around you. 

Withal, if I can afford you even one slight pleasure, 
it is my heart's desire so to do. It is, therefore, with 
somewhat more than filial love that I dedicate this 
little volume to you, my Father and my Mother, both 
together my counselor and guide, still mercifully spared 
to your children ; and in doing so, I can but express the 
hope that your years may yet be many and happy ; that 
the iris struck by a New Sun from the crystals of the 
w^hitened and whitening wintry years may be as full of 
beauty and joy as were the early spring blossoms of love 
and hope that you pressed to your bosoms in youth. 

Your Son, 

CHARLES. 



BY THE WAY. 

As the presentation of these collected verses in their 
present printed form has been induced largely by the 
request of many of my former college students and by 
the importunities of my most intimate friends, and as 
this volume has consequently been prepared chiefly for 
their pleasure, it is hoped that those into whose hands 
the book may fall are already so well acquainted with the 
author that the selections themselves need no formal 
introduction to make them agreeable company and en- 
gaging companions. 

In justice, I should here say that this collection con- 
tains only a few out of the vast number of good, bad, 
and indifferent pieces of verse that I have been making 
at odd hours of a busy life, ever since my boyhood, for 
my own pastime, pleasure, and literary and linguistic 
improvement, with no thought nor distant dream of 
ever permitting them thus to invade the domains of the 
sovereign public. 

That the little book that thus modestly goes forth will 
attain either a large circulation or great popularity I 
neither expect, nor attempt to bring about; but that 
men and women with hearts that love and souls that 
look above may find much quiet pleasure and satisfac- 
tion in the following pages I do sincerely hope. 

It is neither my desire nor befitting to my work to 
lay claim to any degree of excellence in the verses 



VI PREFACE. 

herein presented. Quite to the contrary, I see and re- 
gret many defects which I can now neither remove nor 
repair. But, however defective they may be in form 
or in spirit, I have ever thought that little else than the 
interpretation of the relations of the human soul to life, 
here and hereafter, and the presentation of the good, 
the beautiful, and the true of the human heart is worthy 
of serious effort. 

As a consequence, most of these pieces are dual in 
meaning — one, in plain view, the reality ; the other, less 
distinct, the finer ideality, the reflection, or mirrored 
image of the first. 

It is this second, this finer and often, at first, obscure 
meaning that, in my judgment, is the essential — the 
preserving salt — of any poem. Certainly if not this 
meaning but the apparent one, the one on the surface, 
is the basis of judgment on these poems, they will fall 
far below the estimate accorded that poetry which is 
deemed worthy of existence. 

I wish here to return my thanks for the hearty recep- 
tion accorded the few selections of the prospectus, and 
to express the hope that the completed volume will 
equal whatever expectations the recipients of the pros- 
pectus may have. 

Also, I cannot pass without noting the fact that a large 
share of the first edition of this volume was engaged 
nearly six months before it went to press, even before I 
had determined what productions I should use, and that, 
too, upon the mere announcement that the publication 
was contemplated for the present summer. 

I wish, therefore, thus publicly to thank those who 
have given this substantial earnest of their appreciation. 



PREFACE. vil 

Any opinion or criticism, favorable or unfavorable, 
or any suggestion or correction on thought, arrange- 
ment, typography, or other point, that the reader may 
see fit to express, is not only invited and encouraged, 
but will be most gratefully received and carefully con- 
sidered. 

One word more. If a selection will not bear a second 
reading, or a third, a fourth, or a fiftieth reading; if 
it does not grow better and better at each reading ; if it 
does not lift the soul to a higher plane, a nobler aim, a 
purer life, and a grander view; if at each successive 
reading something does not come out of it and enter the 
heart, and then pass back into the poem again, and thus 
again and again, each beautifying and ennobling the 
other, like a sunset halo among the clouds and the 
liquid, translucent image thereof in the mirroring lake, 
then it is no true poem, and should be cast aside. 

The only proof of the excellence of a poem is that it 
makes the heart larger and the soul nobler for having 
read it, and that at each successive reading both the 
poem and the reader grow better and better. 

Believing, as I do, that poetry is nothing less than 
the interpretation of the Divine in the human heart 
(whether in the mood of tears or of laughter), I can but 
hope, in entrusting these " children of the brain " to the 
care of others, that in the heart of each little waif some 
good may be found, some song may be heard, some 
beauty be revealed, some experience be verified. 

c. w. w. 

Lincoln, 22 June, 1892. 



CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

barefoot After the Cows, ..... 6 

Beautiful May, . . . . . . .62 

Borrowing Brains, . . . . . .52 

Boy Bards, . . . . . • .178 

Browning, . . . . . . .116 

Buzz, . . . . . . . -141 

•Choral of Sunset, A, . . . . . ' . i 

■Chorus, . . . . . . . . no 

Close Attachment, A, . . . . . .126 

Come to the Shadows, . . . . . .12 

Common Lot, The, ...... 17 

Dead Man's Life, The, . . . . . .124 

Death— Life, . . . . . • .135 

Death-Howl, The, . . . . . .131 

Deep unto Deep (Double Threnody), ... 65 
Demoniac, The, ....... 128 

Deploration, A, . . . . . .122 

Down to the Candy-man's Shop, . . . .10 

Dreamy April Evening m the Woods, A, . . . 109 

Echo Song, . . . . . . .18 

•"False Womankind," ...... 32 

Family of the Ephemera, . . . . -36 

Father Time, . . . . . " . .148 

Freedom's Battle Song, ...... 142 

Gift and Giver, ....... 8 

■Good-Night, My Love, . . . . . -71 



X CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Good-Night (Song), ...... 68 

Gravity — Life, . . . . . . -134 

Greatest Thing on Earth, The, — 

I. From Sun to Sun, . . . . .178 

II. What the Striving ? ..... 179 

III. The World is Too Much Ours, . . .180 

IV. Hand and Heart, . . . . .181 
V. Courting the Crowd, . . . .182 

VI. Immortal and God-given, . . . .183 

VII. Asking Hearts, . . . . .184 

VIII. The Crowning Glory, . . . . .186 

Hal a-Huntin', . . . . . . .144 

Halloween, . . . . . . -51 

Happy Days of Yore, . . . . . .156 

Haunted House, The, . . . . . .20 

Hot?— Well, Rather! ...... 135 

Human Heart, The, . . . . . .28 

Humpty Dumpty Idiotic Chap, A, . . . .66 

If So, Peace Till Next New Year, . . . .46 

I Love You, Kate, ...... 123 

In the Angels' Keep, . . . . . -58 

I'.se Seen a Light in de Sky, ..... 34 

I Wonder, . . • . . . . . • . 44 

Just as Usual, ....... 121 

Life, . . . . . . . .52 

Life's Lost Skiff, ...... 125 

Life's Philosophy, . . . . . .120 

Life to Love (A Triolet), . . . . .11 

Lonely! . . . . . . -33 

Lone Wayside Wild-Rose, The, .... 59 

Lover's Complaint, The, ...... 140 

Lurlei, The, . . . . . . .111 

Madrigal, . . . . . . . -117 

Memories of the Past, . . . . .156 

Mince Pie, . . . . . . .14 

Mist- Wing, . . . . . . .15 



CONTENTS. xi 

PAGE 

Modern Tragedy Averted, A, . . . . -25 

'Mong the Mountains of the Soul, . . . 143 

Mortal, A, . . . . . . . . 105 

My Defeat, ....... 46 

Nightmare, The, . . . . ^ , .30 

Old Benoni Tree, The, ..... 2 

On Kingsley's " Farewell," ..... 150 

On Plucking a Crocus, . . . • ' • i33 

Our Alma Mater, ....... 147 

Part of the New England Lament, etc., . . .150 

Pity the Poor, ....... 124 

Poet's Prayer, The, ...... 2 

Press of Penury, The, . . . . . • . 50 

Rex Fugit, . . . . . . . 118 

Shut In, . . . . . . . .40 

Shut Your Eyes and Go to Sleep, . . . .115 

Sickle of Flowers, The, . . . . . .118 

Sleep (Sonnet), . . . . -55 

Slumber Rhapsody, A, , . . . . .5 

Song of the Stars, ...... 42 

Song on the Sea, . . . . . . .56 

Sonnets of Life, ...... 23 

Sorto' Played-Out Ol' Bouquet, A, . . . -9 

Soul of My Soul, ...... 13 

Sweetest of All, The, . . . • . . .138 

Tears and Laughter, ...... 14 

There's a Laugh, . . . . , .47 

This Touch of an Angel's Hand, . . . .119 

Thought, . . . . . . . .58 

Through Reverent Eyes, ..... 71 

Thus Life's Tale, . . . . . . 149 

To a Wild-Rose Bouquet, . . . . -55 

To Fancy, . . . . . . .69 

To Miss , . . . . . . .114 



xii CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

To Morpheus, ....... io8 

To Sleep, ....... 49 

To Thee Above, ....... log 

Tough Mutton, Perhaps, . . . . .114 

Transformation, The, — A Psychological Mystery, . .151 

Twenty, ....... 61 

Ups and Downs, . . . . . . .2 

Useless ? ....... 105 

Washington, . . . . . . . 142 

Weather Fiend, The, . . . . .129 

What is Poetry ? . . . . . . -76 

Wheel and Shuttle, ...... 49 

White-Enthroned Above Me, . . . . -59 

Whither? . . . . . . . 147 

Who Knows? ....... 131 

Woodland Lay, . . . . . -57 

Words and Thoughts, . . . . . -117 

Write from the Heart, . . . . . .146 

Year Ago, A, ....... 137 



SPIDER-WEBS IN VERSE 



A CHORAL OF SUNSET. 

I've a notion the clouds at sunset 

Sing chorals in the sky 
As they let down their billowy tresses 

And kiss 
The sun 
"Good-bye!" 

And the music comes in at the portals 

That Heaven has left in the heart, 
As the shine gets into the flower 

Where the leaves 
Have slipped 
Apart. 



THE POETS PR A VER, 

THE POET'S PRAYER. 

Sweet Zephyr from celestial isles 
That all the earth with joy beguiles, 
I would that thou wouldst blow to me, 

And blow to me thy purest breathing song ; 
I would that thou wouldst come to me 

And tell to me whate'er is right and wrong; 
I would that thou wouldst lay thy hand 

And rest thy hand upon my throbbing brow, 
And that the words thou giv'st to me 

And tak'st from me would be received as thou. 



UPS AND DOWNS. 

The world is like a coach and four, 
And men as there you find 'em : 

For some must ride and some must drive 
And some hang on behind 'em. 

Or like the farmer's 'tater cart, — 

The best on top to brag on : 
For some must rise and some must fall 

Like 'taters in the wagon. 



THE OLD BENONI TREE. 

Brother Grant, do you remember 
Days and years we spent together 

Thro' the summer's shiny weather 

Till apples dropped in late vSeptember? 



THE OLD BENONI TREE. 

Nurtured where the warm suns shine in, 
We were dreamers then, my brother, 
As we Hsped to one another, 

" Ine-een tor-I fert-hi mine-een. " 

Guess you haven't forgotten that yet, 
Have you? I can shut my eyes and 

See the old tree where we sat yet, — 
Hear the rhythm of that thing- rise and 

Fall like echoes of the distant brine in 
Some fair shell ; and like it clinging 
To the past, my heart keeps singing, 

" Ine-een tor-I fert-hi mine-een." 

I'll be plagued if I can tell yet 

What that hitching nonsense jingle 

Meant, can you? I can smell yet, 
Tho', the blossoms ; — hear the lingle 

Of the bells of lolling kine in 

Slaughter's grove ; — see the pink of 
Fruit above us when I think of 

" Ine-een tor-I fert-hi mine-een." 

I can taste those old Benoni 

Apples yet — (fall apples — mellow 

As the winds that kissed the bony 
Branches into blossom ; yellow — 

Butter-yellow — and as fine in 

Taste as Flemish Beauty pears were) — 
For our burdensomest cares were, 

'Ine-een tor-I fert-hi mine-een." 



THE OLD BENONI TREE. 

Ah, my boy, you haven't forgotten 

How with wooden men we pounded 
Them when green till almost rotten 

Just to get the juice out? vSounded 
Mighty tempting with that wine in 

There just squushing for the skin to 

Burst and let us both fall into 
" Ine-een tor-I fert-hi mine-een." 

Ha! ha! ha! what little scheming 
Rascals we were then, my laddie ! — 

Knock off apples just half-dreaming 
Ripeness, stain the stems that had a 

Fresh look with some dirt — divine in 
Innocence ! — then run to mother, 
Each one chuckling to the other, 

" Ine-een tor-I fert-hi mine-een." 

Tell her then we'd found them lying 
On the ground (we had, too!) asking 

If we might not have them, trying 
Every childish art, nor masking 

Mouths just watering to dine in 

Glory on them. When we'd got our 
"Yes!" all earth I'm certain, caught our 

" Ine-een tor-I fert-hi mine-een." 



Oh the days and days together 
In the lazy days of childhood 

Through the shade and shiny weather 
Of the Long Agone's deep wildwood 



A SLUMBER RHAPSODY. 

When we clad our men of pine in 
Every phase of human action, 
Sang to them the old "attraction," 

"Ine-een tor-I fert-hi mine-een" ! 

Throug-h my hazing, half-closed lashes 

As I watch the steady blazing 
Of my fangled oil-stove, plashes 

Of that olden rhythm come lazing 
From the lethy mists, and shine in 

Irised splendors where the tilting 

Timid Robin still is lilting, 
*' Ine-een tor-I fert-hi mine-een." 

Oh the golden old Benonis 

With a heart as rich and yellow 
As the moon, no apple known is 

Half so high or half so mellow. 
For they've drunk the sun's whole shine in 

And preserved our boyhood's story 

With it's olden, golden glory, 
"Ine-een tor-I fert-hi mine-een." 



A SLUMBER RHAPSODY. 

Sleep, sleep, sleep and rest, sleep and rest. 
The wind is in the west 
And night is on the deep, — 
Sleep and rest, rest and sleep. 
Sleep, sleep. 



BAREFOOT AFTER THE CO WS. 

Dream, dream, dream and sleep, dream and sleep. 
The stars their vigils keep 
And skies with glories gleam. 
Dream and sleep, sleep and dream. 
Dream, dream. 

Sleep, rest, dream and rest, sleep and dream. 
The morning sun will beam 
And cares thy day infest, — 
Rest and sleep, sleep and rest, 
Rest, rest. 



BAREFOOT AFTER THE COWS. 

I am plodding down the little lane again 

With my trousers rolled above my sunburnt knees ; 
And I whistle with the mocking-bird and wren 
As they chatter in the hedging willow-trees. 
And my foot as light and nimble as the airy wings they 
wear 
Trips along the little lane again to-day; 
And my bare feet catch the tinkle thro' the silent sum- 
mer air 
Of the jingle-langle-ingle far away. — 
Klangle-ling ke-langle, 
Klingle-lang ke-lingle 

Dingle-lingle-langle down the dell; 
Jingle-langle lingle, 
Langle-lingle r-r-angle, 

Ringle-langle-lingle of the bell. 



BAREFOOT AFTER THE CO IVS. 7 

From the lane across the prairie o'er the hill 

Down a winding little path the cows have made, 
In my thought to-night I'm going, going still, — 
For the sinking Sun is lengthening it's Shade ! 
And I find them in the hollows — the hollows of the dell 

And I find the drowsy cattle in the dell, 
By the ringle-rangle-jingle, — the jangle of the bell, 
By the ringle and the jangle of the bell. — 
Klang-ke-link ge-lingle, 
Jangle-ling ke-langle, 

Klink ke-langle-lingle down the dell ; 
Klangle-link ke-langle, 
K-link ke-lank ke-linsfle, 

Lingle-link ke-langle of the bell. 

As the cows across the prairie homeward wind 

O'er the hill and toward the broadened sinking sun, 
Steals a silence o'er the wooded vale behind 

Where their shadows, lengthened, darken into one. 
And I whistle back the echoes, — the echoes left behind. 

That are wand'ring in the tangles of the dell ; 
And in answer to the message — the message that I wind. 
Call the echoes of the klangle of the bell : — 
Langle-langle lingle, 
Lingle-langle lingle, 

Lingle-lingle-langle down the dell ; 
D-r-r-ingle-langle-langle, 
R-r-angle-ringle-langle, 

Langle-lingle-r-r-angle of the bell. 

At the lighting of the Candles of the Night 

When my tangled locks have found the pillow's rest, 

I can hear the langle-lingle, soft and light. 
Like the cradle-rocking lulling of the blest. 



8 GIFT AND GIVER. 

And upon the ear of Fancy — of Fancy born of Sleep, 

Comes the klangle from a distant dreamy Dell ; 
For the angels lull me dreaming — dreaming in their 
keep, 
To the klingle-langle-lingle of the bell. — 
Kling-ge-lang-ge-lingle, 
Klangle-lingle-langle, 

Langle-lingle-lingle from the dell ; 
Kling-ge-ling-ge-langle, 
Ling-ge-lang-ge-lingle, 

Lingle-lingle-langle of the bell. 



GIFT AND GIVER. 

Not what we give, but what we share. — Lowell. 

Rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind. — Shakespeare. 

Not the binding of this book 

Nor its leaves with marble edge ; 
But the poet's heart and soul 
In each thought upon the page 
Makes the book of worth, 
Lifts us from the earth, 
From the common sod 
Nearer unto God. 

Not the gold that's in the gift 

Nor the sense of doing duty ; 
But the giver in the gold 

With a heart that's full of beauty 
Makes the gift of worth. 
Lifts us from the earth, 
From the common sod 
Nearer unto God. 



A SORTO' PLAYED-OUT OL BOUQUET. 

A SORTO' PLAYED-OUT OL' BOUQUET. 

They're withered — sorto' withered now, 

They've got a musty smell ; 
So I must shet the book up tight 

An' set an' wait a spell. 

They're withered — sorto' withered now, 
They've lost their red an' green. 

An' the leaves are crushed an' crumpled up 
With crinkled buds at ween. 

They've got a sorto' musty smell 

That almost makes me sick, 
For they 'mind me o' the days in June 

We got 'm 'long the crick. 

They wan't no style about them tho', 

Like city flowers is — 
They's jist the good ol'-time Wil'-Rose 

That God set out fer His. 

I stuck 'em in this Good Ol' Book 
Long 'fore they drooped an' died. 

An' here each day they've smiled at me 
When I have only cried. 

I touch 'em — an' I touch her hand 

That put 'em here in mine ! 
I see 'em — an' I see her lips 

More temptin'er 'an wine. 

'T's a sorto' played-out ol' bouquet, 

Ol'-fashion' roses too; 
But then it's beautif'ler to me 

Than fresher ones to vou. 



lo DOIVN TO THE CANDY-MAN'S SHOP. 

Jist let me look agin — 'y jing! 

I see her smile there yet ! 
Somehow it sorto' all comes back, 

An' I see her smile there yet. 

They're withered — sorto' withered now, 

They've got a musty smell ; 
vSo I must shet the book up tight 

An' set an' wait a spell. 



DOWN TO THE CANDY-MAN'S SHOP. 

Here we go hippety-hop, 

All for a stick of candy 
Down to the candy-man's shop — 

Tell you what he's a dandy. 

All for a stick of candy 

Hippety-hop we go. 
Tell you what he's a dandy 

Givin' us candy you know. 

Hippety-hop we go, 

Head-over-heels in our hurry. 
Givin' us candy you know 

Sets us all in a flurry. 

Head-over-heels in our hurry 
Into the candy-man's shop ; 

vSets us all in a flurry 
Goin' it hippety-hop. 



LIFE TO LOVE. n 

Into the candy-man's shop 

Everybody just tum,bles, 
Goin' it hippety-hop, 

'Cause, you see, Jic never grumbles. 

Everybody just tumbles 

Makin' the candy-man grin, 
'Cause, you see, Jic never grumbles. 

No matter how we come in. 

Makin' the candy-man grin, 

Here we are crowdin' and pushin' ; 

No matter how we come in 

He knows the wush we're a-wushin'. 

* -5^ * * * * 

Return. 
L-l-lp! but that's better'n ma's jelly, 

Down to the candy-man's shop! 
Hang to my hand now, Nellie, — 

Here we go hippety-hop. 



LIFE TO LOVE. 

A Triolet. 

It is life just to love 

With a heart's true devotion : 
'Tis the great law Above. 
It is life just to love, — 
For the soul just to move 

With a sweet, wild emotion. 
It is life just to love 

With a heart's true devotion. 



12 COME TO THE SHADOWS. 

COME TO THE SHADOWS. 

A Pantoinn. 

Come to the shadows of eve 

FalHng like mantles around us ; 

Come where the winds ever weave 
Songs in the tree-webs around us. 

Falling like mantles around us 
Sweet chime the vespers of love ; 

Songs in the tree-webs around lis 
Waft from some Idean grove. 

Sweet chime the vespers of love 
Borne by the zephyrs of even ; 

Waft from some Idean grove 
Lydian measures of heaven. 

Borne by the zephyrs of even 
Love in his quiver bears 

Lvdian measures of heaven, 
Softest of musical airs. 

Love in his quiver bears 

Aye when the star-flowers blossom 
Softest of musical airs, 

Night folding Day to his bosom. 

Aye when the star-flowers blossom 
Love sings the sweetest of themes; 

Night folding day to his bosom 
Lies down to rapturous dreams. 



so UL OF M V SO UL. r 3 

Love sings the sweetest of themes 

Bidding my heart that yet never 
Lies down to rapturous dreams 

Fold thine own close to mine ever. 



Out 'mnd the dew-loved flowers 
Come where the winds ever weave 

Love in the web of the hours, 
Come to the shadows of eve. 



SOUL OF MY SOUL. 

Out on the river that rolleth forever, 
Floweth forever and moaneth for aye, 

Floateth a sorrow that never shall borrow 
Peace to release it from me to the sea. 

Sorrow that ever my sad heart's quiver, 
Sheathing alone this one arrow of woe. 

Binds as the billow that never shall pillow 
Crest =on the breast of the moaning flow. 

O Stygian water, of heart-breakings fraughter, 
Far more aburdened of mournful commotion 

Than night is of stillness or Hell is of fellness, 
Knoll thou and toll my ocean devotion ! 

Dash thy dread roll 'gainst my turbulent soul. 
Strike till its tones shall thy moanings control. 

Bearing emotion as deep as the ocean 
Unto the one who is soul of my soul ! — 



14 • MINCE PIE, 

Unto the maiden whom angels of Aidenn, 
Wandering- over the strand of the blest, 

Enviously stole from the heart of my soul, 
Bore to thy shore and prest to thy breast. 

Let not thy plashing- and turbulent dashing 
Grate on the ear of my radiant Love ; 

Kiss her bright tresses with fondest caresses 
Controlling thy rolling with love from above. 

Her fair form enfold on thy bosom cold. 
Rowing her soft with thy Lethean oar ; 

Whisper, oh whisper, as winds of the wold 
Unto the one whom they bore to thy shore. 

Farewell, fair Minevr! soft over the river 
LTnto thy rest shall the waves gently roll, 

Where never forever death-rivers dissever 

Heart from fond heart, or thy soul from my soul. 



MINCE PIE. 

Tell me not in great big ninnbers 

Facts can never lie; 
For no fact in muddled slumbers 

Lies so heavy as mince pie. 



TEARS AND LAUGHTER. 

Tears are often liveries stolen 
From the equipage of grief ; 

Nor in Anger's red eyes swollen 
Do they e'er disguise the thief. 



MIST-WING. 15 

Tears are often pettish, Darling, 

Like the foamy fretting run ; 
Like the foam they sparkle, Darling, 

At the kisses of the sun. 

Tears, true tears, are sad and lonely 

Like the ocean's music bars ; 
Like the music, vanish only 

With the cycles of the stars. 

Tears are often pent-up gladness, 
Like the clouds that hold the bow ; 

Like the clouds they use their sadness 
That their joys may better show. 

Tears may often be imploring 

Like the waves that kiss the skies ; 

Like the waves, for'er adoring, 
They reflect their loved one's eyes. 

Tears? They are but kin to laughter. 

Wedded as the night and day ; 
Like the day and night, each after 

Each prepares the other's way. 



MIST-WING. 

Oh my heart was light and airy 
Like the mist- wing of the fairy 

That I loved ; 
And I sang with song enchanting, 
For the angel I was wanting 

Dwelt above. 



1 6 MIST-WING. 

And I fain had clasped the maiden 
In her mist-winged robes of Aidenn 

With my love ; 
But my eyes were blind with gleamings, 
And my hands, bound fast by dreamings, 

Would not move. 

Then my heart, with horror filling, 
Mid-leap froze with awful chilling 

Like to death ; 
For upon her mist-wings thrilling 
Did a demon blow his chilling, 

Blasting breath. 

Where my Mist- Wing fair was ferried 
There my hope and heart lie buried, 

Turned to stone ; 
There the dreams of bygones cheery 
Drone a dreary, ceasless, weary 

Monotone. 

Where my fairy floats forever 
O'er the ripples of the river, 

Bound in sleep, 
There my fondest fancies follow 
And with haunting features hollow 

Vigils keep. 

PVom a star a light is streaming 
In her golden tresses gleaming 

Fair as Hope; 
Fade the phantoms faster, faster. 
From the Morning-star, life's vaster 

Horoscope. 



THE COMMON LOT. 17 

She is waking-, waking, waking. 
And my soul and body breaking 

Swift apart. 
Joy ! my spirit soon shall hold her 
And forever more enfold her, 

Heart to heart. 



THE COMMON LOT. 
CJior iambic. 

Sweet bird, sitting so sad singing your song there on 

the limb alone. 
Why make all the sad world sympathize with every 

mournful tone? 

Ah yes ! weep then, my dear, over the loss of the dear 

one you love : 
All hearts weep with you, dear, weep for some heart 

lured to the land above. 

Yet not even the deep river of tears rolls from the 

heart the stone ; 
No, naught save the white-robed Angel of Hope born 

of the soul alone. 

O dove ! mourning alone, croon to the moon over the 

one you love ; 
O soul ! Hope is thine own, throned in the white dome 

of thy home above ! 
3 



ECHO SONG. 



ECHO SONG. 

Echo, be not heartless, I implore you, 

Listen to my woe ; 
And I'll evermore, as now, adore you 
(Tho' that augurs that I sometimes bore you) 
For I fain would know 

What's to be done. 

— "Be done!" 

Oh but, sir, I must beseech, entreat you 
That you hear me through. — 
If a rare and radiant maid should meet yoii 
And with smiles and wiles and pranks should greet you, 
Pray, what's one to do 

When one sees her? 
"Seize her!" 

But I'm not quite well enough acquainted 

A'Vith her, don't you see? 
Echo, when her lily face is painted 
(On my soul), and at my heart ^he's feinted^ 
And I'm blind as she, 

How can I seize her? 
"See, sir." 

But alas ! the laws of Love prohibit 

That his subjects see ; 
And besides, explicitly inhibit 
Other sight than blindness to exhibit. 
What then? I can ne 

" See, " nor " seize her. " 
" Cease, sir." 



ECHO SONG. 19 

But, friend Echo (for you are most truly 

Friend and counselor), 
Love's commands must all be followed duly 
.(Tho' himself most blind and most imruly) ; 
Hence I can't "see," sir, 

"Cease," nor "seize her." 
" Caesar! " 

Yes, that's what I've been ejaculating. 

But it's idle breath. 
Now, if this consuming passionating 
Doesn't stop its wild peregrinating 
It'll be my death. 

Must I let it? 
"Let it!" 

Friend should answer friend more seriously 

Nor play upon grave words. 
She's affected quite as amorously 
As who wakens you thus clamorously 

With love's scattered sherds. 
Seeking surcease — 
" Sir, cease! " 

Nay, I will not cease till satisfaction 

Is obtained from you. 
Tell me what to do in this distraction 
And I'll vary from it not a fraction. — 
Truth is, there are two — 
Ann and Mary. 
"Marrv! " 



2 THE HA UN TED HO USE. 

Tell me, Echo, O sweet Echo, tell me. 

Oh and truly tell 
What sweet thralling charm should most impel me 
That no other wight may quite excel me 
When I choose my belle 
For matrimony — 
"Money." 

Tell me then without equivocation 

If you value health, 
Swear it by the hills, j^our habitation. 
Whence you issue like an exhalation, — 
Which one has the wealth? 
Truly answer — 
"Ann, sir." 

Thanks to thee, sweet Echo, Love's pathfinder ! 

We shall never part. 
Forthwith I will hie me forth and find her 
And the wealthiest jingling love-songs wind her 
Till I win her heart 

And earn her mine. — 

"y4;/;/.'-dern her mine! " 
[This last he hears in after years.] 



THE HAUNTED HOUSE. 

Hope and Love have gone away 
Closing every window-blind. 
Locking every door behind, 

Bearing off the key. 



THE HA UNTED HO USE. 2 1 

Tenantless the mtisty house 

Throws on passers-by its gloom ; 

Nor in any haunted room 
Dares a living mouse. 

Old and mouldy there it stands 

All mysterious and lone 

With its mosses overgrown — 
Ruin's myriad hands. 

Useless grow the choking weeds 

While the winding eglantine 

And the morning-glory vine 
vScatter wild their seeds. 

Times there are when winds, hard pressed, 

Gibber at the ghosts within, 

Hollow-voiced with staring grin, 
Uninvited guests. 

Rumor, waking night and day, 

Sees strange sights through window-panes. 
Hears weird sounds of clanking chains 

vSounding far away. 

Rumor tells that Hope and Love 

Walk the ghosts of murdered selves 

When the midnight hour twelves : 
Empty rooms they rove. 

But malicious town-folk say 

Hope and Love are not awa}^ 

But art hiding day by day : 
Murderers are they! 



2 2 THE HA UN TED HO USE. 

But alas! I would 'twere so! — 

Would that Hope and Love each might, 
Might return e'en tho' at night, 

Tho' at morn they go ! 

For Despair and Hate hide there, 
Quiet thro' the daytime quite, 
Ghosting sights and sounds by night, 

Demons of the air. 

Counterfeiters both are they, ' 
Coining only after night, 
Minting metal ghostly white. 

Holding revelry. 

Aye, 'tis haunted ! Hate is wed. 
Wedded to his inate Despair, 
And they hold high revels there : 

Hope and Love are dead! 

Good my friends, remove the pile, 

Ere it fall to foul decay ; 

Hope and Love have gone away. 
Ruin feeds the while. 

Hope and Love have gone away, 
Closing door and closing blind, 
Leaving Ruin lone behind. 

Bearing off the key. 



SONNETS OF LIFE. 23 

SONNETS OF LIFE. 
I. 

A brilliant battle Darkness fought with Light, 

A brilliant battle all the living day ; 

The Sun, awearied in the deadly fray, 
Sank vanquished 'neath his armored foeman's might, 
But flung his arms far up the black'ning height, 

From the quiver of the planets joyously 

Drew forth his arrows, star-tipped, feathery, 
And pierced the iron-plated breast of Night 
With ten thousand starry-spangled blades of fire. 

Night, wounded by the arrows of the Sun, 

Poured out ten thousand streams of living blood 
That dripped from every fire-tipped arrow dire 

Down in the sorrowing sea ; and the wounds each one 
And the arrows all lay skyed in the doming flood. 

IL 

Triumphant Darkness stretched his blackened height 
Along the ground of heaven ; all bleeding lay 
Grim Night upon the heaving breast of Day, 

Exulting with a demon's own delight. 

Reviving Sun again, with heaven-born might, 
Upflung his hands, far up the eastern gray. 
From the shining quiver of Divinity 

Drew forth his shafts, white-hot with God's own light, 

And pierced the mail of Night, blood-rusting red, 
With countless dazzling fire-tipped darts of gold. 
Down into the Lethal power of Chaos dread 

vSank vanquished Night with all the damned dead 1 
And ever over Darkness, ages old. 

Triumphant ruleth Light, — the great Godhead! 



24 SONNETS OF LIFE. 

SYMBOLS IN SONNETS OF LIFE. 

On submitting this poem to critics, I find that various ideas are 
gleaned. Some take it as a Hteral description of night and day, or 
light and darkness ! Others think that it celebrates the victory of 
truth over error, right over wrong, virtue over vice, or possibly 
the triumph of' learning over ignorance, or civilization over bar- 
barism. This is not so surprising ; for I confess it does, indeed, 
admit various interpretations. Some say that in its obscurity, 
though in nothing else, it somewhat resembles the work of some 
great poet. The only consolation that I can squeeze out of all 
these various opinions is that obscurity and occultness synchro- 
nously attend upon and are concomitant with both iconographic 
delineations and symbolical phraseology. 'Tis said 'tis so, — and 
so 'tis sad! 

"Sing a song o' six-pence, pocket full of rye, four and twenty 
black-birds baked in a pie," etc., is comparativ^ely meaningless, 
tho' pleasing, unless we know what is symbolized. The "pie" 
is the day, the " four and twenty black-birds" are the twenty-four 
hours of the day, etc., etc. The symbols thus completed give a 
new beauty to that old jingle. In fact, it was that identical jingle 
with its symbols that suggested Son7iets of Life. 

As the title and staring Carlylean capitals throughout suggest, 
I intended this poem to be a sort of A7talogtie of Life. In conse- 
quence of all the foregoing, and for the delectation of those who 
care to read the piece a second time, I have subjoined these 

Syinbols and Notes. 

I. 

Darkness, — death. 

Light, — life (on earth). 
day, — one's duration of life. 
Su?i, — one's life. 

black' 7iing height, — hour of death. 

quiver of the planets, — thoughts, desires, longings, hopes. 
arrows, — faith in the future. 

iron-plated breast of Night, — gloom of one's death. 
streams of living blood, — hope others receive from the Chris- 
tian's death. 



A MODERN TRAGEDY A VERTED. 25 

dire, — i. e., di're only to Darkness. 

sorrowing sea, — sorrowing friends. 

skyed m the doinmg flood,— d^oX.^, deeds, words, hopes, etc., of 

the dead, reflected in humanity and 
especially in the hearts of friends. 

II. 

Reviving Sun, — soul, on morning of resurrection. 

eastern ^rrt_y,— dawning of the morning of the resurrection day. 

mail of A7^///,— sleep of death. 

Last sonnet closes all life on earth, triumphs over death, and 

brings the resurrection day. 
Last two lines begin and indefinitely extend the Life Eternal. 

This may aid somewhat. Too close an interpretation cannot be 
permitted in any poem: 'twould make some of the most exquisite 
poetic thought of literature ridiculous and nonsensical. The true 
poetic nature never needs more in the interpretation of any poem 
than the title and the naked poem itself to suggest thoughts and 
images infinitely more beautiful than explanation can possibly 
make them. 



A MODERN TRAGEDY AVERTED. 

He (/;/ despondency). 

Heartless! heartless! Oh, 

I know! 
Tho' your heart forget me 

And my own be turned to stone ; 
Tho' no day may let me 

Claim my loved one as my own, 
Still my heart is true 

To you. 
Still is true. 

Still is true! 



26 A MODERN TRAGEDY A VERTED. 

She (^fa itJifu lly ) . 

Heartless? — heartless! — So ? 

Ah no! 
Tho' long years divide us 

With the burdened stream of care ; 
Tho' the waves deride us 

With a still unanswered prayer, 
Still my heart is true 

To you, 
Still is true. 

Still is true. 

He [joyously). 

Then not heartless?! No! 

No, no! 
If I've wronged you. Dearest, 

'Tis because I'm mad for love; 
'Tis that you are nearest 
When my thoughts in madness move. 
Still my heart is true 

To you. 
Still is true. 

Still is true. 

She {flippantly). 

Then not heartless? No! 

Not so ! 
Tho' you gave the treasure 

Of your very life to me, 
I thus at my pleasure 

Give it back to you, you see ! — 



A MODERN TRAGEDY A VERTED. 27 

Still my heart is true 

To you, 
Still is true, 

Still is true. 

He {Inttcrly and sadly). 

Heartless! heartless! Oh 

'Tis so! 
All the world is dreary : 

Stars and love have ceased to shine ; 
Oh the weary, weary 

Night that endlessly is mine ! — 
Still my heart is true 

To you, 
Still is true. 

Still is true. 

She (tauntingly). 

Ha! I'm heartless, tho' ? 

No, no! 
I was only funning 

And I didn't mean it once ; — 
Never thought of running 

Into love, you great big dunce. — 
'Course, my heart is true 

To you. 
Still is true, 

Still is true ! 

He (in despair). 

Heartless! heartless! Flow, 
My w^oe ! 



THE HUMAN HEART. 

Oh this life is bitter ! — 

Poison, river, rope, or gun — 
Any death is fitter 

Than two hearts thus dead in one. 
Still my heart is true 

To you. 
Still is true 

Still is true. 



She [in fear ^ imploringly). 

No ! not heartless ! No ! 

No, no! 
I am true as ever; — 

Oh don't take your precious life 
And I'll be forever 

Your own darling little wife. — 
Still my heart is true 

To you, 
Still is true, 

Still is true. 



THE HUMAN HEART. 
Birth. 

Laughter is music and music is kin to laughter : 
The heart has forgotten its tears ; 

For life is but death, and Death is the Life hereafter- 
God is revolving the years. 



THE HUM A N HE A RT. 29 

Joy on Account of Birth. 

With a rose-bud goblet the Morning stands glowing and 
burning, 
Sipping the heart's night dew ; 
Through dream-laded lashes the flashes of joy are re- 
turning — 
God is letting them through. 

Sorrozu on Accoiuit of Death. 

With a Spade all golden the Night of Sorrow is digging 

Deep in the heart's confines: 
A Dream drifts out with a sable shroud and rigging — 

God is working the mines ! 

Soul Passes Beyond. 

In the hands of the angels the cymballine stars are 
clinking 
A wealth of music untold : 
For the Rising of Life, as the sun, must follow its sink- 
ing- 
God has coined His gold ! 



L' Envoy. 

Oh, laughter is music, and both are akin to sorrow, — 
The heart holds the songs of the spheres ; 

For life is but death, and Death is the Life to-morrow — 
God is speeding the years. 



THE NIGHTMARE. 



THE NIGHTMARE. 

In the depths of my ink bottle, 
With a fiery gleaming- throttle 

vStood a fierce and ghoulish demon all the day ; 
And the murky ink was lighted 
With a fiendish fire that blighted 

Every sprite of good that on its bosom lay. 

And my pen, from Love's own quiver. 
Wrought of gold, began to shiver 

With a fearful quaking terror born of death 
As I touched the hellish-lighted 
Surface of the Ink that frighted 

Pluto's self and stole Persephone's sweet breath. 



Hour after fearful hour 

Stood that blasting, fiendish power 

In whose grasp my golden pen was ground to dust. 
Oh, the wasting, endless season 
Chilling heart and killing reason 

As the gloating demon glutted full his lust ! 

^'Golden Pen that Love had given. 
Wrought of gold from my heart riven. 

Thus my palsied, broken heart must bury thee 
In the fiendish ink, made blacker 
By the demon's fiery lacquer 

On the surface of its dark uncertaintv." 



THE NIGHTMARE. 3^ 

Then a shadow came before me 
And a loathing sickness o'er me 

As the demon sank below and out of sight ; 
For I saw a stream of gold 
That the demon could not hold 

To the bottom of the darkness drip its light. 

Then I knew that never, never 
Would Love's gold-illumined quiver 

Bind again the shaft the demon could not hold ; 
For I saw a radiance shining 
'Round the place, and angels twining 

Strange and all-eternal Beauty of the gold ! 

Darkness reigned then, deep, unlighted, 
Silence sitting near, half-frighted 

By the demon's disappointed distant wail 
And far-off mingled angel voices 
Tuned to music that rejoices 

In the glory of a love that cannot fail. 



* 



Morning? — Thank God that all our seeing 
And our seeming is not being ! 

Dear wife, let your warm cheek still against mine lie 
While your loving arms and kisses 
Doubly tell what loving bliss is. — 

Warning : — Before you go to bed, don't eat mince pie ! 



32 ''FALSE WOMANKIND!'' 



"FALSE WOMANKIND!" 

ON READING A SLUR THAT WAS MADE ON HER BY THE 
LACK-LOVE GAY, OF QUEEN ANNE's DAY. 

" False womankind, false womankind!" 
Thus wails and rails a many a blind 
And foolish heart, too long confined 
Where light and love have never shined. 
E'en sweetest Shakespeare's pen, embrined 
With biting bitterness of mind, 
"As false as woman's love," has whined. 
— Unkind the cut, the heart imkind. 

"False womankind, false womankind!" — 
I hurl the lie back from my mind 
To those who thus a wreath have twined 
Of roseless thorns to crown and bind 
A sister's crown, or mother's kind 
And sainted brow ; — or twine and wind 
It, thorns and all, round heart and mind 
Of sweetheart-wife in love enshrined. 

False, false the charge and false the mind 

That ever says " False womankind! " 

For the paean ages wind 

Unto me this truth they find 

In the heart of humankind. 

In the human heart enshrined : — 

" None so false and none so blind 

As whose loveless pens have lined 



LONELY! 33 

What the heart has undermined, 
' False womankind, false womankind ! ' 
None so true as Jicr we find : 
None so pure of heart and mind, 
None so sweet and so refined. 
None so great and good and kind, 
None so in the heart enshrined 
As womankind, as womankind! " 



LONELY! 

TO (long ago dead.) 

I am lonelier, lonelier. Dear, to-day 

Than ever I've been before: 
And the restless old ocean, foam-fretted alway, 

Moans only of days of 5^ore. 

But somehow my heart is so sad in life's whirl. 

And my life is so shut in its shell, 
Tho' it heal every wound o'er with purest of pearl 

Of naught but the sea will it tell. 

Oh, lonely and lorn as the bittern's boom, 

I haunt every solitude known. 
Only to find from the wide world's room 

A nameless something has flown. 

I know not the reason, and fear nor I care ; 

I only know I am lonelier, Dear, 
As over the well-wonted moorland I fare. 

Than ever the death-wept tear. 
4 



34 I'SE SEEN A LIGHT IN DE SKY. 

How lonely, Dear ! how long; the time ! — 
But I'll bear it, I'll bear it for thee, 

That at last I may join in the glad-voiced chime 
Far out on the crystal sea. 



I'vSE SEEN A LIGHT IN DE SKY. 

(a plantation melody.) 

Oh I'se gittin' ol' an' grizzled, 
An' I haint got long to stay; 
My head hab got to noddin' 
An' I haint right well noway. 

Oh I'se gwine, gwine to leab you, 

An' doan' you chillun cry; 
Oh I know I'se gwine to leab you 
Caze I'se seen a light in de sky! 

Choriis. 

Oh yes! in de white clouds floatin' high, 
Oh yes! caze I'se seen a light in de sky! 
Oh I,— 

Oh I'se seen — 

I'se seen a light, — 

I'se seen a light in de sky! 
Oh I'se gwine away to leab you. 

An' doan' you chillun cry! 
Oh I know I'se gwine to leab you 
Caze I'se seen a light in de sky! 



I\SE SEEN A LIGHT IX DE SKY. 35 

Oh dat light am a-g-ittin' brightah, 
An' de cloud am a-comin' nio-h — 

o 7 

Oh I know hits de angels comin' 
Fer to carry me home on high. 

Oh dese eyes dey'll nebber see you, — 

Hoh my chilkm doan' you cry! — 
Twell dey wake in de happy mawnin, 
Gaze I'se seen a light in de sky! 

Chorus. 
Oh yes! in de white clouds floatin' high, 
Oh yes! caze I'se seen a light in de sky! 
Oh I,— 

Oh I'se seen — 

I'se seen a light, — 

I'se seen a light in de sky! 
Oh I'se gwine away to leab you. 

An' doan' you chillun cry! 
Oh I know I'se gwine to leab you 
Caze I'se seen a light in de sky! 

Oh good-bye to de ol' plantation, 

De mawnin' am growin' gray! — 
Oh good-bye, an' stop yo' weepin', — 
De mawnin' am breakin' Day! 

Oh yes ! in de heaben dat's comin' 

I'll meet you by-an'-by! — 
Hoh yes! in de happy mawnin', 
Caze you'll see de Light in de sky! 

Chorus. 
Oh yes! in de white clouds floatin' high! 
Oh yes! caze you'll see de Light in desky! 



36 FA MIL Y OF THE EPHEMERA 

Oh I,— 

Oh I'se seen — 

I'se seen a light, — 

I'se seen a light in de sky! 
Oh I'se gwine, gwine to leab you, 

But I'll meet you by-an'-byl 
Oh I know I'se gwine to meet you, 
Caze I'se seen a light in de sky. 



FAMILY OF THE EPHEMERA. 

(To be read in connection with the following poem, " Shut In.") 

Somewhere, sometime, I know not when or where, I 
have heard a strangely beautiful and beautifully strange 
and altogether wonderful story — a story of a pygmy 
people. 

*[n the long, long ago that has slipped into the lethal 
tide of the flow of Time where even the years have for- 
gotten the rolling chime that they used to sing to the 
shore of a heavenly clime (and where poets don't ever, 
nor ever, nor ever rhyme), whence even Tradition, 
asleep, forgets to climb, so long ago that I don't know 
but that the time still antedates all dates, there lived 
the Family of the Ephemera. 

As the sun came up in the morning, the race came 
into existence. During the night, a toad-stool of won- 
derful dimensions had sprung up, and beneath this over- 
shadowing phenomenon, built by the genii of darkness, 
the first glint of the new day's sun kissed the first born 
of a new race — the Adam and Eve of the Family called 
Ephemera. 



FAMILY OF THE EPHEMERA. 37 

As the sun arose, and ere, e'en years ere it showed its 
lower disk, the family increased most startingly. The 
whole of their known world was peopled. They devel- 
oped the resources of their vast little land. They cul- 
tivated the soil. They delved in the mines for g-old. 
They carried on commerce with their widely scattered 
selves. They built homes and cities. Their cities were 
magnificent, their houses built of exquisitely carved and 
polished stone quarried from a grain of sand. Each 
window was made of the filmy iridescence of a single 
simbeam, and curtained with richly embroidered tapes- 
tries woven from threads of the delicate shadow cast by 
a single ray of spectral purple. Their tables were filled 
with all the rich and dainty micros of the land. Withal, 
they were a happy, though barbarous people. 

The sun arose. Men of the present generation had 
already grown gray-headed, while myriads of their pos- 
terity were just starting on their paths. Generation 
after generation had already come and gone, each leav- 
ing the wealth of its history, its experience, its scien- 
tific researches, its learning to the inheritants of the 
next. 

Centuries to them came and went, governments grew 
old, decayed, and passed into tradition, while others 
sprang up in their places ; — for to this strange and fast- 
living people, our moments were days, our seconds 
were months, our minutes were years, our hours were 
centuries, and our days were ages untold that lap the 
two ends of time into one unbroken eternity. 

The sun was mid - forenoon. The Family of the 
Ephemera had grown old and wise. They pointed with 
vaunting pride to their intelligence and prosperity, to 



38 FA MIL V OF THE EPHEMERA. 

their grand achievements reaching down the long, fret- 
ted colonnades of history and vanishing in the dim per- 
spective of tradition's mystery. They looked upon all 
around, beneath, and above them, and rejoiced that all 
was for them. Their wise philosophers pointed to the 
sun and said, "All for usi " They told and taught how 
that great sun had always remained in its present place ; 
for even in the memory of the oldest inhabitants no 
one had ever known the sun to be in other place than 
now. Nay, even history knew it not. They said, how- 
ever, that there was a tradition, but not authenticated 
by history nor by later scientific investigation, that the 
sun long, long aeons ago had occupied a position nearer 
the horizon. They showed how and why all things were 
made for them; how the great toad-stool, towering an 
immeasurable distance above them, had been placed on 
earth for them, and them alone, and philosophized how 
it was impossible for another to exist in the universe. 
They rejoiced that their little world was created, and 
endowed with all its richest blessings, for none other 
than them. They were a happy people, and prosper- 
ous. Their want of wisdom made them more happy 
and more prosperous. 

Centuries came and went. The sun stood in the 
zenith. So stood the race of Ephemera. Wiser phi- 
losophers than those of the mid-forenoon of their exist- 
ence still pointed toward the great red sun, and said, 
"It was always tJicre ; it was made for lis!'' Crowns 
crumbled. New nations arose as from chaos, flourished, 
and died. Others took their places. Schools had al- 
ways been tolerated. They were now fostered. They 
pointed their telescopes toward the mighty fret-work of 



FAMILY OF THE EPHEMERA. ■ 39 

the toad-stool above them, and computed the number of 
huge radial beams that supported its broad outer rim. 
The students of the universities and colleges delved deep 
into the lore of their ancestral nations. They studied 
history ; they read their poets ; they reasoned and com- 
puted with their mathematicians; they looked down 
into the earth and up into the heavens with their phi- 
losophers, and, withdrawing to their own narrow cells, 
they said, "All for us, all for us I " 

The sun passed the zenith, declining to the west. The 
race declined I Still, philosophers said, pointing to the 
sun, " 'Twas alway thus; 'twas made for us! " 

They said Time was for them, and them alone. They 
could not conceive another similiar or a different people. 
With prophecy, they looked into the future. They 
claimed that, also : for a hope and a faith, placed in their 
hearts at their creation, had grown and strengthened, 
that they should all meet again in another world, a 
brighter and a better world, all for them, all for them. 
The gods, with whom they peopled all things, watched 
over and guarded them, and them alone. 

The sun sank low. The lower limb touched the hori- 
zon. With the going down of the sun, the r^ce decayed 
in its old age. As the last ray of sun passed over the 
land of the Ephemera, only two of this strange Family, 
wandering hand in hand, old and lone, turned their eyes 
to the waning light of the west, and sank to rest as the 
ray shot up and out into the unfathomed sky beyond, 
and glinted its gold on the clinking stars, the beautiful 
golden gates of the sable and iron-bound night ! 

Thus passed away the Family of the Ephemera. 
Strange, strange story! A race wrapped up in them- 



40 SHUT IN. 

selves, never dreaming; that there might be innumerable 
other realms like their little own ; that there might be 
peoples on peoples beyond their ken in worlds unknown 
as superior to them as the gods of Olympus were supe- 
rior to the Romans. 

A strange, strange story ! — for we are looking through 
an inverted microscope, the large end at the eye, and 
the small end turned upon Time, Events, and the Hu- 
man race ! 



SHUT IN. 



Oh the narrowness man has been born to descry in, 
Where the convex surface of every eye, 

Even imto the night of the day we shall die in. 
Still perfectly fits in the concave sky ! 

II. 

I wonder sometimes if the star-illusions 
We see at first glance in the infinite sky. 

Are not the suggestions, the far-intrusions. 
Of systems on systems beyond the eye. 

I wonder if ever the thought may confound them 

Who inhabit a silvery orb of mist. 
Seeing myriads of silvery others around them. 

That myriads on myriads more may exist. 



SHUT IN. 41 

Oh say, do the sprites of each tiny frost-crystal 
That burns with the pent-up fire of suns 

Ever dream or imagine the same holy vestal 
Is burning- in myriads of similar ones? 

Do the spirits that dwell in the dust of a sun-beam, 
As each in its course like a planet whirls, 

Ever know they are bathed in the light of but one beam 
From the sun of but one mighty system of worlds? 

III. 

Oh the narrowness man has been born to descry in, 
And the infinite bounds of his hopes and desires ! 

Even unto the night of the day he shall die in 
Aspiring and falling he still aspires. 

But I know in my heart that in w^orlds elysian 

The convex surface of every eye, 
With a perfected soul and an infinite vision, 

Will range o'er a perfected, infinite sky. 

IV. 

For I dreamed a dream, in the midnight quiet, 

Of a golden day in a happy time ; 
And my thoughts leaped up at the dream -god's fiat 

And sang in my heart this golden chime : — 

O rise thou my soul, look beyond thy dark prison, 

The warder is shifting the mortal bars ; 
An infinite sim in the east has arisen. 

There's an infinite system beyond the stars. 



42 SONG OF THE STARS. 



SONG OF THE vSTARvS. 

I dreamed one night when the golden stars, 
Like an eastern maid o'er her soft kanoon, 

Leaned out of their skyey bowers above 
And sang in sweet measures an olden tune. 

I dreamed the sweetest of dreams that night ; — 
And the portals of heaven seemed opening wide 

As the music grew sweeter and nearer each note 
And rose and fell like the swell of the tide. 



Ah the beautiful, beautiful stars of that night. 
And the beautiful music they left in my heart 

Shall brighten and brighten forever and aye 
And never forever my soul shall depart. 

At the soft dream-touch of the finger-tips 
On the harps of air by the heavenly throng, 

The deep silence merged into soft music-waves. 
And I heard in my heart this beautiful song :— 

Dream, dream. 

Youth and maiden, 
Beam, beam, 

Stars love-laden. — 
We are the beautiful portals of love, 
Beautiful, beautiful portals above 

Whence all the glories of heaven shine : 
Turn your eyes, turn, turn, turn your eyes. 
Turn them to the happy skies 

And drink with them sweet love divine. 



SONG OF THE STARS. 43 

Dream, dream, 

Youth and maiden, 
Beam, beam, 

Stars love-laden. — 
Youth, in the depths of thy soul do thou pray, 
Pray for thy guidance in Love's lighted way. 

Kneeling- at radiant Love's holy shrine: 
Turn thine eyes, turn, turn, turn thine eyes, 
Turn them to the happy skies 

And drink with them sweet love divine. 

Dream, dream, 

Youth and maiden, 
Beam, beam, 

Stars love-laden. — 
Maiden, still not the sweet throbs of thy heart, — 
Throbs his caresses and words sweetly start, — 

When he is hoping and longing for thine : 
Turn thine eyes, turn, turn, turn thine eyes. 
Turn them to the happy skies 

And drink with them sweet love divine. 

Dream, dream. 

Youth and maiden. 
Beam, beam, 

Stars love-laden. — 
Youth, seek the heart of the one at thy side 
And into thy sky shall a bright vision glide, — 

A star that shall ever for thee alone shine : 
Turn thine eyes, turn, turn, turn thine eyes. 
Turn them to the happy skies 

And drink with them sweet love divine. 



44 / WONDER. 

I woke from the dream at the tide of the morn, 
And beheld the sweet vision that filled my dreams. 

That vision, My Star, thro' a long, happy life 
Is g-tiiding my steps with its golden beams. 

No longer, no longer a vision or dream, 

I clasp My Sweet Love to my heart all my own ; — 

But still I can hear the sweet music that fell 
From the stars that night on our hearts alone. 



I WONDER. 

I wonder sometimes if ever 

The music God has sent 
Will get into my heart and stay there 

As I think he surely meant. 

Can the voice of Laughter enter 
The form where Death has been? — 

Whence the spirit of Love has departed, 
Can Music's charms come in? 

There's an ache in my heart that daily 

Goes out in earnest quest 
Of the spirit of Love that has left me 

In the sadness of unrest. 

Oh, I wonder sometimes if ever 
That spirit of Love will return, 

And rekindle my heart's dead ashes, — 
Inspirit the dust of the urn. 



/ WONDER. 45 

I fear that the spirit would enter 

The ashes in ghostly quest, 
And set but the bones into motion, 

The ghost of Love at the best. 

Are the rivers, I wonder, ever 

Brought back by the clouds from the sea 

To flow in the same old channels 
Over the dregs and debris? 

The love of my heart has departed — 

The river has run to the sea ; — 
And I wonder sometimes if its waters 

Will ever come back to me. 

Lo, there in my heart's dead channels 

Lie the stagnant pools of Time ; 
And I see the debris at the bottom, 

The dregs and the rotting slime. 

I v/onder if ever the rivers. 

The rivers that run to the sea, 
Flow just as sweet on returning 

Over the dregs and debris? 

Somehow, a thought in my spirit 

Comes up from the stagnant fen 
That the music of Heaven shall never 

Be heard in its waters again ! 

Yet I wonder each day as I wander 

Along where the streain used to be 
If the waters won't sometime come back there 

And dredge out the dregs and debris. 



46 IF SO, PEACE TILL NEXT NEW-YEAR 

It may be! 'Tis a long time coming, — 
Too long, I fear, — too long! — 

For Love's River must sing its music 
In hearts that have never gone wrong. 

Oh, will the Waters returning. 

Borne by the Clouds from the vSea, 

Run just as sweetly as ever 
Over the Dregs and Debris? 



IF SO, PEACE TILL NEXT NEW-YEAR. 

(a dirge.) 

The New Year!— hark! the bell!— oh it 
Is at last here ! 
A solemn hush ! The world sits still 
With breath abated as the poet 
Of the New Year 
Takes an anti-bilious pill ! 



MY DEFEAT. 

Sweeter than any sii7ig 

My so?igs that found no tongue. 

Whittier: My Triicniph. 

In the universe swept by the eyes of my soul, 
Swim a myriad luminous stars and suns ; 

And swift through my brains burning aether they roll 
Like the infinite trains of the heavenly ones. 



THERE'S A LA UGH. 47 

In my dreams I outstretch my vain arms with delight 
For the forms of the angels that sing round my bed ; 

But alas ! for the chorus of seraphs take flight 
And beckon me whither but angels may tread. 

And I muse with my heart when my mind sits a-dream 
While vibrations of light from the heavenly cars 

Fleet swift thro' the arms of my soul in bright gleam. 
And leave me upreaching for aye tow'rd the stars. 



THERE'S A LAUGH. 

There's the laugh of the fiend that shrivels the heart, 
That burns out the eyes from their sockets of fire, 

That crackles the skin and parches the breath 
And bellows and shrieks with demoniac ire. 

There's the laugh of the hobgoblin, demon of night, 
That frightens the children to silence their sobs, 

That rings in their ears to the end of life, 

And at night in their hearts like the death-watch 
throbs. 

There's the wild, screeching laugh from the madman's 
lips 

When his eyes wildly start from his reechy brain. 
That haunts us, tho' try to forget as we will. 

And pierces the heart with a dagger of pain. 

There's the unearthly laugh and the sickening leer 
Of the idiot — wretched Unfortunate ! dead 

Before born, the live sepulchre of unknown crimes. 
The tomb of the lives generations have led ! 



48 THERE'S A LA UGH. 

There's the blasting, blistering, withering laugh 
That blights e'en the heart wherein it is born, 

That bubbles and sputters and hisses and spits 
As it falls from the scorching lips of scorn. 

There's a strange, weird laugh, even tho' from a child, 
That gurgles and sticks in the sleeper's thick breath, 

That startles the shivering silence with awe 
And dies in the throat like the rattle of death. 

There's a laugh, like the wind's cracked whistle, that 
creaks 

And squeaks on the worn-out pipes of old age ; 
And a sigh heaves up from the heart full sad. 

For we know what the ominous sounds presage. 

There's the free, wild laugh that boimds as the deer — 
As free as the leap of the hart and as wild — 

'Tis the laugh that I love with my heart and my soul, 
The sweet, wild laugh of an innocent child. 

There's the laugh that I love, the balm of tired hearts, 
That quiets the fluttering temples of care ; 

'Tis the soft, soothing laugh from the sweet lips of Love, 
And it falls like a blessing that answers prayer. 

There's the sweetest of laughs full of mUvSic divine 
That gladdens the heart and the throbbing brain; 

I would give — oh what would I not, were it mine. 
But to hear the sweet laugh of my mother again. 



WHEEL AND SHUTTLE. 49 



TO SLEEP. 

Soft on thy breast 
Where the soul in oblivious quiet may dream 
While it sweeps up to heaven on a star-born beam, 
There would I rest, 
vSo peacefully rest. 
Oh rest, 
Rest !— 
Asleep on thy breast, 
Asweep to the blest 
In a dream 
On the gleam 
Of a star 
In the cradle-rocked billows of azure afar. 



• WHEEL AND SHUTTLE. 

Spin: God will send thee fiax. — Proverb. 

[Although differing slightly from his literal experience, neverthe- 
less to the boy, long ago grown to manhood, who used to cling to 
his mother's dress, and fretfully toddle back and forth as she pa- 
tiently sent the big wheel whirring and then ran backwards with 
her lengthening thread, then forwards, and so on, hour after 
hour, spinning threads for the home-loom, this poem, with its ap- 
plication to life, has in it the pleasing scent of the roses of recol- 
lection, intoxicating even to sadness.] 

"Spin, spin! " 
The warp is in 
And the shuttle never slacks : 

5 



50 THE PRESS OF PENUR V. 

Let thy fingers never rest, 
Heed the weaver's stern behest, 
" Spin, spin! " 
While the woof is weaving in, 
God will send thee flax. 

'* Spin, spin!" 
The wheels begin, 
And the distaff never lacks : 
Let thy spindle's endless thrum 
Fill the shuttles as they hum 
"Spin, spin! " 
While the woof is weaving in, 
God will send thee flax. 

" Spin, spin! " — 
Thy fingers thin 
Let the carded threads relax ! 
Lo ! the wheel is standing dumb. 
For the loom has ceased its grum 
" Spin, spin!" — 
Aye, the woof is woven in, 
God has sent thee flax ! 



THE PRESS OF PENURY. 

Out of the Press of Penury 

The choicest wines have flowed 
To rouse a nation's blood 

To statesmanship or poesy. 



HALLOWEEN. 5^ 

(Nor less to hearts the poet's cause 
Than statesman's counseling: — 
If but a people sing, 

I care not who shall make the laws. ) 

With every cycling sun that slips 

Through all its winding turns, 

Some Lincoln or some Burns 
Still lifts his spirit to our lips. 



HALLOWEEN. 

AN INVITATION SENT TO A LADY, OCT. 31. 

I wad na gang alane to-night 

An' leave alane a lassie 
Where pixies, elves, an' goblins fight 

An' drink their bogie tassie. 

Sae come wi' me an' gang awa' 
Where oufe nor spook nor bogle 

Hae ought o' ill or guid to do 
But flichter, blink, an' ogle. 

Oh we'll be merry like the lave 

Tho' Halloween be eerie. 
An' crack an' jauk an' giddy 'have 

Wi' Mrs. C till weary. 



52 LIFE. 



LIFE. 



What is life ? — ' Tis a delicate shell 

Thrown up by Eternity s fiow 
On Time' s bank of quicksand to diveL 

And a moment its loveliness show. 
Gone back to the elements grand 

Is the billow that cast it ashore : 
See ! another is washing the strand. 

And the beautiful shell is no more ! 

—D. A, 



What is life?— 'Tis the billow of bells 

That the sea of eternity bears ; 
And in rapturous music it swells 

As it kisses the sands of the years. 
But the ripples are breaking in foam, — 

And the billow has ceased to be ! 
List ! the billow, gone back to its home, 

Is tolling down deep in the sea ! 



BORROWING BRAINS. 

" Lend me your brains, lend me your brains," 
Screeched a highwayman goblin 'way down in his throat 
As deep as he ever could dig up a note. 

And his whole gang creaked and hoarsely screaked 
Like a hinge that was rusty, and constantly shrieked 
" Lend us your brains, lend us your brains," 
As they seized my mare's head at the bit by the reins 



BORROWING BRAINS. 53 

And a long-haired loon with a razory spoon 
Clipped open my scalp just over my crown, 
And the skull the same place, running crosswise and 
down ; 
And they hinged the two pieces with screechy brass 

bands 
Where they singed off my hair by the touch of their 
hands : 
And oh the pains, the pains, the pains, 
When they flapped down the cover just back o' my 
brains. 

My mother came by with a heart-rending cry. 
And a wretch popped his eyes from the crown of his hat 
As he squealed, "You'll never again do that! " 

And he sharpened his spoon on the sole of his shoon, 
Did the long-beard lout by the liquidy moon ; 
And he severed her brain and her heart in twain 
While the rest held me there in my helpless pain. 

And the long-beard loons with their long-eared spoons 

Stood up on the top of my topless crown 

And then leaped to the depths of the hollow turned down. 

Oh they teetered and twinged on the part that was 

hinged, 

And they shrieked with delight till the very air cringed 

As they sang in their glee how smart they would be 

When they got all my brains in their noddles, you 
see. 

And they reached their long spoons, the reechy old 
loons, 
'Way into the cavity made in my head. 
And scraped, and scraped till they thought I was dead. 



54 BORROWING BRAINS. 

Oh the pains, the pains, the terrible pains 
When they spooned from my skull every speck of my 
brains. 
Then with spoons for their pries dragged both of my 

eyes 
Through that hole in my head of such terrible size. 

Oh they thought they would be such poets, you see, 
And such wonderful, marvelous scholars, you know, 
When they planted my brains in their noddles to grow ! 
But my — oh — oh ! what fools they were though ! 
For poets, you know, are like underdone dough — 
And oh — my — oh ! what fools they were though 
When they planted my brains in their noddles to 
grow! 

But they crammed every grain, their ill-gotten gain. 
Clear down in the pokes of their pocket-like ears, 
And turned over my eyes to their sages and seers. 
But they soon rued they had the brains I had had 
For they drove every one of them stark staring mad ; 
For the goblins, you see, went crazy, like me, 
As mad as a March hare ever could be. 

To my greatest surprise they brought back my eyes 
And put them both back as they always had been. 
Since Thought made them crazy, as each one had seen. 
They restored me my brains with the greatest of pains^ 
And handed me back my mare's bridle-reins ; 
Then away and up through the atmosphere flew 
And left me as sound and as solid as new ! 

And there ivas no loon with a goblin spoon, 
And there never has been and never will be. 
Whether or not this happened to me. 



TO A WILD-ROSE BOUQUET. 55 

It needn't at all happen this way to all : 
But whatever you do, or whatever befall, 

Un-lcss tJic gob-lins get your nigJ it -marc's reins^ 
Dont cv-cr nor ev-cr go Icnd-tng your brains! 



SLEEP. 

Dear Nurse that foldeth weary Nature to 

Thy heart, and from tired eyes shutteth out the light^ 

E'en as a mother at the fall of night 
Doth take her child upon her lap to undo 
The snarls and tangles of the day, and woo 

Away the sun-bred ills, and balm the sight 

With visions of another world all bright, 
Dear soothing healing Sleep ! 'tis thee I sue. 
Come, fold your arms about my Sweetheart- Wife ; 

Balm up her eyes that stare at staring Night ; 

Seal down her lids with sweet, refreshing gleams, 
Or visions, rather, of the happy life 

We've planned together; and leave her not till the 
light 
Of morn, with me, shall kiss her from her dreams. 



TO A WILD-ROSE BOUQUET. 

Wild roses down the lane 

Sweet Laeda gave in June, 
To glad me 
And to sad me, 
Like shine and mingled rain 
Atween the clouds aboon. 



56 SONG ON THE SEA. 



vSONG ON THE SEA. 



Merrily, merrily over the wave 
We'll laugh and we'll sing as we're bounding along, 

Merrily, merrily, joyous and brave 
We'll echo the music of waves in our song: — 
Roll, roll, break, break. 
Over the merrily musical waves, 

Roll, roll, wake, wake 
All the glad echoes that hide in their caves. 

Rocking and rolling the sea is our home 
And joyous we shout from our billow-rocked boat; 

Cleaving the breakers white-feathered with foam 
We'll set the sweet echoes of ocean afloat: — 
Roll, roll, break, break. 
Over the merrily musical waves. 

Roll, roll, wake, wake 
All the glad echoes that hide in their caves. 

Merrily, merrily out of their caves 
We'll call the glad echoes sweet laughing along ; 

Merrily, merrily out on the waves 
We'll mingle the musical sea with our song: — 
Roll, roll, break, break. 
Over the merrily musical waves. 

Roll, roll, wake, wake 
All the glad echoes that hide in their caves. 



WOODLAND LAY. 57 



WOODLAND LAY. 

Oh come to the woodland where joys reign supreme, 
Where the zephyr's soft kiss lightly touches the brow, 

And the vSun gently drops thro' the leaves in a dream 
And sleeps in the shade of the wide-spreading bough. 

Let the world plod along w4th its stern, solemn face. 
With its brow" deeply wrinkled with thought and with 
care; 

Let the pleasures of life to-day's business replace 
While we list to the charm of its wild, joyous air. 

The murm'ring of brooks, the singing of birds, 
The whisper of winds and the leaves soft reply. 

The bleating of flocks and the lowing of herds, 
The breathing of nature from earth to the sky — 

All combine to make music with cadence as sweet 
To the ear of the mortal, as the music of spheres, 

Gentle wooed from the harp at Infinity's feet 
And as softly let fall on angelical ears. 

Like the soft flakes of snow as they fall on the deep, 
The rhythmical notes adown tremblingly go 

On the listening air, and as silently sleep 

In the ocean of joys, where they melt as the snow. 



5^ IN THE ANGELS' KEEP. 



IN THE ANGELS' KEEP. 

Let me not look on the dear, dead face, 

I would not remember her so ; 
For her eyes are closed, and her hands are still, 

And her lips can't speak, you know ! 

Let me remember her just as she lived, 

And just as I'll meet her above — 
With eyes that could talk and a touch that could soothe, 

And a heart that was full of love. 

Let me remember her not as one dead, 

But as one that has fallen asleep ; 
She will wake in the morning, I know, at my call. 

Awake in the angels' keep ! 



THOUGHT. 
Thought alo7ie is eternal. — Young. 



'i> 



'Tis the whisp'ring of angels, the brush of their wings; 

'Tis the flight of a soul from its fetters of clay 
To the lighthouse of gold where the seraph Hope sings 

And flings out its notes on life's billowed bay. 

'Tis the touch of Christ's hand that upraiseth the dead; 

'Tis the breath breathed of God in the nostrils of 
man; — 
The stream that shall rise from its mould-made bed 

And join with the clouds whence in rain-drops it ran. 



THE LONE WAYSIDE WILD ROSE. 59 

Tinged with sadness of mortals, it smells of the grave ; 

But the Childhood of Faith and the Mother of Hope, 
It beckons to fields where the palm-groves wave 

And the joy-studded gates of Jerusalem ope. 



WHITE-ENTHRONED ABOVE ME. 
(on a small white-rose bouquet presented by a lady 

AND PLACED IN PALGRAVE's " GOLDEN TREASURY, " OP- 
POSITE "the SLEEPING BEAUTY.") 

White roses, sweet white roses 

Fair Leda smiles atween. 
No soul your lily-light encloses 

So pure as hers, I ween. 

Here lie and dream, sweet, pure white roses 

That blessed the heart of June, 
And ope the budding love that closes 

Around her soul aboon. 



THE LONE WAYSIDE WILD ROSE. 

I passed along a wilding lane 
Where weeds and straying flowers grew, 
Where clover-blooming meadows threw 

Sweet love upon the winds in vain. 

Lonely by the wayside wild 

Where the earth all trodden lay, 

There peeped a wild rose, one bright day. 

And stretched its palms like a pleading child. 



6o THE LONE IVA YSIDE WILD ROSE. 

Day after day, day after day 

It drank of love from heaven and earth 
And lifted itself from a timid birth 

To a beautiful soul in sweet array. 

It breathed from out of its opening soul 
The breath that heaven has g-iven the rose, 
The sweetest by far that mortal knows, 

And drank sweet love from the night's dew-bowl. 

The tint of the fleecy clouds of morn 

Came out of the flushing tide of its heart, 
And lay on its cheek with artless art — 

The fairest blush that ever was born. 

'Twas when the rose was full in bloom 
I passed along that wilding lane 
When love upon the winds was vain. 

The desert air its deathless tomb. 

I loved the flower and said, "Alas! 
'Tis sad to know such love must die. 
Such sweetness with the mould must lie. 

Such beauty into death must pass! " 

I plucked the flower from off its stem 

And said, ' ' Sweet Flower ! Life were Death 
Without thy beauty and thy breath — 

The heart must wither else for them." 

I plucked the flower — blest wild rose ! — 
I set it blooming in my heart, 
And said, " Should my sweet rose depart 

To-day — the night its dear life close. 



TWENTY. 6 1 

' ' The love it leaves shall ever live, 
Shall ever grow, and bloom and bloom, 
Shall go with me thro' Death's dark gloom. 

And hope of glad reunion give." 

The flower, blooming, lived and grew ; — 
That sweet wild rose is blooming still ; 
Its beauties every corner fill 

That life and love and heart e'er knew. 

And should my fond heart ever break, 
That sweet wild rose would never die; — 
'Twould spring from the mould where it might lie 

And the fairest bloom immortal take ! 



TWENTY. 

May the twenties yet triple. 
And then add their half. 

Still preserving the ripple 
And ring of your laugh. 

And may every bright twinkle 
That falls from your eye 

Serve to smooth out each wrinkle, 
The track of a sigh. 

When the twenties shall twinkle 
And ten more shall run, 

I hope every cute wink'll 
Still shine out with fun. 



62 BEA UTIFUL MA Y 

Oh the triple of twenty 
Phis none less than ten I 

May yoii be the same dainty 
Sweet girly-girl then ! 



BEAUTIFUL MAY. 

Oh 'tis May, 
Beautiful May, 
Month of beautiful May^ 
Beautiful month of May. 

Wild flowers blooming. 
Grasses growing. 
Wild brooks flowing, 

Pheasants booming — 

Oh 'tis May, 

Beautiful May 
Lovelier far than month of June, 

Beautiful May! 

And every day 
Is putting the strings of life in tune. 

May-buds peep 

At robins chattering 
To their mates 
And those asleep, 

Always flattering 

With nodding pates 
And promises free 



BEA UriFUL MA V. 63 

The farmer asnooze 
That they will keep 

From others the neWvS 
That cherries are in the tree. 

The playful dawn 
Is after the moon, 
And the moon is running away. 
Oh the stars like sheep are all running- away 
After the moon, 
Away from the dawn. 
Away from the dawn of the month of May, 
Away, away, away. 

With skip and play 
They dance away 
After the dizzy moon 
That pales with the pallor of fright so soon 
At the brightening sight. 
Affright of the light 
Of the morn of a lovelier month than June, 
So soon, soon, soon. 

Oh sweet May, 
Beautiful May 
Thus brightens her face each day. 
And lets the light of her tresses stray 
Into each part 
Of the earth's dark heart 
Where flashes like lashes from diamonds play 
— Astray each day at play. 



64 BEAUTIFUL MAY. 

The light from her eyes 
In the spring's emprise 
Sinks deep in the soul of the sands; 
And with glittering, flying hands 
Every one 

Of the sands doth run 
And lift into life the clod from its bonds 

That climbs to a soul like man's. 

She breathes on the air, 
And the sweet winds wear 
Her blooms in their billowy hair, 
And pour out their perfumes and nectars rare 
Distilled in the cup 
That the goddesses sup 
For the beautiful dutiful May so fair, 
So rare and fairy fair. 

She drinks of the stream. 
And the glad waters gleam 
With delight as they leap to her lips. 
She creeps up the mountains and merrily sips 
Of the fountains that spring 
From the snows as they string 
Up their bows for a shot at the lower rock-crypts 

Where the sun like the dew-drop drips. 

She skims to the plain 
And frightens the train 
That the winter has left on guard. 
She whistles her bird-notes soft and hard 
And calls from retreat 
The bickering feet 
Of the green that the winter in prison has barred, 
— Sweet, te-weet, wheat. 



DEEP UNTO DEEP. 65 

DEEP UNTO DEEP. 

A DOUBLE THRENODY. 

Oh the bounding of the billows of the sea 

Rolls the rhythm of their music unto me ; 
And a footstep that has fallen on the lea 
Seems to echo from the boundless, soundless deep. 

But the breaking of the billows — the billow^s as they 
leap, 
Makes the silence of my sorrow with them weep ; 
While the echoes of the grottoes — the grottoes wildly 

start, 
Ever throbbing to the music of my heart ; — 
Throbbing to the threnode. 
Rocking to the rhythm, 

Moaning to the music of my heart, — 
Threnode throbbing ever. 
Rhythm rocking ever, 

Music moaning ever in my heart. 

Oh my Love is on the billows of the sea, 

Sending messages along the waves to me ; 
And the ever-singing shells along the lea 
With my longing heart a constant chorus keep. 

But the breaking of the message — the message 
from the deep, 
Makes the silence of my sorrow inly weep ; 
While the moaning shells intoning, intoning griefs 

impart 
Ever sobbing to the silence of my heart ; — 
6 



66 A HUMP TY-D UMP TV ID 10 TIC CHA P. 

Sobbing to the silence, 

Intoning to the moaning, 

Breaking to the breaking of my heart,- 
Silent sobbing ever. 

Grief intoning ever, 

Breaking, breaking ever in my heart. 



A HUMPTY-DUMPTY IDIOTIC CHAP. 

There was once a little humpty-dumpty idiotic chap, 
Who had both a mug an' muzzle most remarkable to 
see. 
An' he couldn't do a solitary thing but grin an' gap, 
But he done that simply awful an' he done it con- 
stantly. 
His tater head was sorto' meller like a punkin over-ripe 
An' his yaller face was puckered like a lemon with the 

gripe ; 
An' his front teeth like stalites — or what you call 'em — 

always gave 
To the cavity behind them the appearance of a cave, — 
Jist forever an' forever from life's earliest beginnin' 
Simply nachelly a-grinnin' an' a-grinnin an' a-grinnin'. 

Well, you see, he couldn't help it, couldn't help it not a 
bit, 
'Cause for some peculiar reason he was born jist that- 
a-way. 
An' if Nater marks a feller he had better jist submit, 
'Cause she wants that mark for somepm, an' she's goin 
to have it stay. 



A HUMPTY-DUMPTY IDIOTIC CHAP. 67 

Caint no doctor make a rose-bud of a busted-thistle 

mouth, 
Nor he caint turn north a foot that's got to growin' 

sorto' south. 
Spect this chap inside him knowed it wa'n't no earthly 

kind o' use 
To be squeezin' on a lemon that didn't have a bit o' 

juice ; 
—Maybe 'lowed his ugly mug 'ould be a doin' less of 

sinnin' 
If he'd leave it jist a-grinnin' an' a-grinnin' an' a- 

grinnin'. 

'Course he didn't reason on it, cause he didn't have no 
sense ; 
But I kindo' sorto' reckon that he done like others 
do— 
Jist set down up where he'd clum on top o' Nater's ol 
worm-fence 
An' let the sun bile down onto him an' soak him clean 
plum thro' an' thro' 
While with busy boom an' buzz the plunder'n' bug an' 

bumble-bee 
Went a-nosin' thro' the clover where the rosy-posies be. 
An' with one eye squinted up an' t'other squinted down 

plum shet, 
Up on top the fence, I spect, twixt brute an' human 
there he set, 
An' jist let the whirly-gigy world whirl off its spin- 
dle spinnin' 
While he joyed hisself a-grinnin' an' a-grinnin' an' 
a-grinnin'. 



68 GOOD-NIGHT. 

Hope he did enjoy hisself, 'cause he didn't have enough 
Sense to know what trouble was, — he was a idiotic 
chap. 
An' he couldn't tell to save him if a voice was soft or 
gruff 
For he couldn't talk, nor Jicar, nor — not hi n' only grin 
an' gap. 
An' his eyes that kept a winkin an' a squintin up an* 

down 
Never let the glorious sunlight paint no picter in his 

crown. 
Plum stone deef an' dumb an' blind — a hunch-backed 

idiot at that ! 
Oh 't'ould 'most-a broke your heart, as mine, to see hira 
sittin' flat 
On the floor in sich an awful fix as he was dyin' in an' 
Rockin back an' forth, a-grinnin' an' a-grinnin' an' 
a-ofrinnin'. 



GOOD-NIGHT. 

A SONG OF THE CLOSE OF LIFE. 

Infant. 

Good-night, good-night! — the brightest day must fall, 
The sweetest joys, alas! must fade the sight; 

Sad Night shall weep her silent tears o'er all — 
Good-night, good-night, sweet babe, good-night. 



TO FANCY. 69 



CJiild. 



The day has kissed thy happy heart to sleep 
And left thy lips apart in sweet delight ; 

But oh the Night, I know, must slowly creep— 
Good-night, good-night, my child, good-night. 



Youth. 



Good-night, good-night ! —thy care and day is done. 

The stars thy camp, the Deity thy light, 
Thy soldier hand and heart at rest sleep on,— 

Good-night, good-night, my boy, good-night ! 



Man. 



Or griefs or joys thy lot, the past be past!— 
The star of hope is on the mountain height. 

For sun and life must sleep and rise at last, — 
Good-night, good-night, worn heart, good-night. 



All. 



Good-night, Sad Heart, to Light and Darkness born ! 

The sun is sunk — but Stars and Hope are bright ; — 
And all that sleep at night will wake at Morn ! — 

Good-night, good-night, Dear Heart, good-night ! 



TO FANCY. 

Light and gay 

Flight away 
Over the rolling sea, 

Night and day 

Bright my fay 
Bringing sweet music to me. 



70 TO FANCY. 

Deep in the sea 

Leap with glee 
Braiding the mermaiden's hair ; 

Leap the sea, 

Sweep to me, 
Bearing her kisses rare. 

O my fay, 

Row away 
Out in a nautilus shell, 

Glowingly, 

Flowingly, 
Its rhythmical story to tell. 

Greet the morn 

Fleetly borne 
Over the foam of the sea, 

Meet the morn, 

Sweet return 
Bringing its beauties to me. 

Lie and dream 

By the beam 
Thrown from the rolling moon, 

Lie and dream 

Night its gleam 
Asleep in some deep lagoon. 

Far enskyed 

Star-like ride 
Down in the doming deep, 

Where the wide 

Bar and tide 
Croon to the moon asleep. 



THRO UGH RE VERENT E YES. 7 1 



GOOD-NIGHT, MY LOVE. 

Good-night, good-night ! 
Thy dreams to-night, 

Thy dreams, thy silent dreams. 
Be sweet as love, as chaste as light. 
Thy dreams be sweet and deep. 

Oh dream, my Love, 
And sleep, my Love, 

While star-laced moon-light beams 
Above so bright with love and light, 
Good-night, good-night, my Love. 



THROUGH REVERENT EYES. 

To-night I saw her. Strange indeed 

My faint heart should thus fail me ; — strange 

That after such transporting love 

In me three days should work such change. 

Not more than three? — Nay, barely three; 

And yet, within that raptured time 
I've lived, it seems, a century 

Of hope in Love's own blissful clime. 

'Tis strange, this love of mine, so strange ; 

So strange I fear sometimes I do 
Not love, but only dream I love. 

And sleep the mid-life watches through. 



7 2 THRO UGH RE VERENT E YES. 

How many, many is the time 

I've looked upon some face, some form, 

And felt the sudden thrill of some 
Fair hand awake the passion-storm ! 

But only momentary ; and then 
That old, old longing for the real 

And soul-enlighted face of her 
Whose image is my heart's ideal. 

Ah yes! to-night as I sit and write 
Sweet visions come before my eyes. 

Sweet visions only! and like lights 
Along the shore they fall and rise. 

Who are they? Friends of my happy days, 
The friends of my childhood, boyhood, youth, 

And later age. Yet none there are, 
I fear, I ever loved in truth. 

I've often wondered what love is. 

I've heard men speak of it, — ah yes! 
I've heard fair women, too! but what 

It is, I wonder did they guess? 

I've read of love; I've thought of love; 

I've read and thought that in that hour 
When love should truly come to one, 

'Twould come an all-possessing power ; 

'Twould smite upon the chord of self. 
And break the faulty string in twain ; 

'Twould touch a more melodious chord 
And wake a glad, harmonious strain. 



THRO UGH RE VERENT E YES. 7 3 

And so I wonder what love is ; 

And if I ever knew before 
A few short, happy days ago 

How love can rise, and sing, and soar. 

Too sacred for my heart to hold, 

To me a woman is divine — 
As far above me as the stars 

That I adore because they shine. 

I can but stand and gaze above, 

I can but worship and adore, 
Nor dream that I could reach her height — 

I could but drag her down ; no more. 

Yet other men have loved. Must I, 

Must I alone throughout the night 
Stand gazing at a star that shines 

For me alone upon the mountain height? 

Ah yes ! I fear me that all night 

ril watch the silent waning star 
Adoring and revering till 

It sinks behind some rugged scar. 

I fear I do not love ; I hold 

The fairer sex too high, I fear ; 
And bowed with awe and humbleness, 

Instead of loving I revere. 

Among the noisy human crowd, 

I stand as stands the silent stone ; 
And like it, too, I dumbly pray 

To whom I love, and inly moan. 



74 THRO UGH RE VERENT E YES. 

And thus it is my reverence brings 
Me woe. As silent as the tomb, 

My heart bowed down with sacred awe 
Still wanders thro' Love's trackless dome. 

Men call me cold. Alas ! could they 
But feel the half, the tenth I feel. 

Could they but look thro' reverent eyes^ 
They might my sealed heart unseal.. 

Too deep the mighty river flows ;. 

Too deep the silent waters are ;• 
I catch the image, not the form, 

Embrace the vision, not the star. 

Can heart of man pluck down a star 
And wear it on his breast? or dip 

Its gleam from out the soundless sea 
And press it to his loving lip? 

No more, no more indeed can I, 

No more can I pluck down the love 

That like an angel day and night 

Still wanders through the dome above. 

Oh could I ask a woman's love? 

I could not, would not drag her down f 
I could not gratify a thought 

vSo selfish — wed her to a clown ! 

No ! no ! my only hope must be 
To rise above this selfish self ; 

To grow more pure in heart and hope, 
To lose mvself in her sweet self. 



THRO UGH RE VERENT E YES. 7 5 

To-night, I say, I saw her; her 

Who wakes in me such thoughts as these ; 

I felt her hand as I sometimes feel 

An angel's hand in the dreamy breeze. 

She seemed far off — so far away ! 

And yet, I knew and saw her near : 
I touched her hand : I heard her voice, 

And oh the music thrilled my ear. 

When here alone within my room, 

I feel most brave ; but when before 
The one I love, my heart grows faint, 

I can but silently adore. 

I talk to her? Ah yes, sweet hours! 

Tho' every act and word I know 
Must say my heart is full of love, 

I dare not, can not tell her so. 

Some day, perhaps, — some bright, sweet day! — 

My tongue may tell her as my song 
The struggle of my striving soul 

To rise to her above the throng. 

Great God, lift up my failing soul. 

And purify this heart of mine. 
Oh lead me through the realms of love 

With that unfailing hand of Thine. 

I ask nor wealth, nor fame, nor power ; 

I ask a pure and loving heart 
That I may join that heart to hers 

Forever nevermore to part. 



7 6 WHA T IS POETR Y? 

And oh then peace, peace, the peace of love 
For that old, old longing ; and the real 

And soul-enlighted face of her, 
The image of my heart's ideal. 



WHAT IS POETRY? 

Proper conception and appreciation of the poetic, 
whether in objects of nature or in the mirror of words 
reflecting the human heart, presupposes a delicate and 
divinely wrought nature tuned to the touch of the 
Maker's hand. Only such a beauty-loving soul finds 
responsive a chord to the soul of beauty that dwells in 
the bodying words of poetry. The finer the soul, the 
finer the music. To possess this light-receiving and 
raidant Divinity is to possess at once both the highest 
attainment of human culture and aspiration and the 
greatest gift of God. It is thus at the same time both 
a growing seed and the seed's growth. That is, the 
poetic soul is both a gift divine and a cultivation of it 
consecrated to the Divine Giver. Or, in other words, the 
poet is both born and made. Poeta nascittir non fit — the 
poet is born, not made — is true in this sense and in no 
other ; for the feelings, the gifts of the poet, are the gifts 
of every human soul in greater or less degree. Else the 
proverb is not true, and we must say, Poeta nascittir et 
fit; which would, no doubt, be equally misunderstood. 
But Poeta nascitnr non fit is true; and if, instead of 
being translated literally, it is rendered in an explana- 
tory way, it means simply: — "The poet possesses the 
same faculties that others do ; but the poetic faculty in 



IVHA T IS POETR Yf 7 7 

him at birth is more highly developed than it is in 
others, and is consequently susceptible of a higher degree 
of cultivation. If the poetic faculty is naturally slight 
or insignificant at birth, no amount of cultivating and 
polishing can create, or make, a poet of its possessor. " 
This is the ancient meaning, and the only sensible mean- 
ing, the meaning accepted by all who understand the 
subject. 

To see it from a different angle. The true poet has 
both genius and talent — or rather, genius has the poet 
and compels the poet to have talent. Genius is the 
divine gift ; talent is the cultivation. Genius — poetic 
genius — , the highest harmonious union of the feelings, 
is the part of the poet that is born ; talent, the ability to 
reveal that genius, is the part that is cultivated, or made. 
Genius is power; talent is skill. The man of poetic 
genius cannot help writing; the man of poetic talent 
can help it, but won't. That's the main difference. 

If you can't help writing, nine chances out of nine 
you are a poet, and are imconscious of your great power 
from the simple fact that it is natural to you. If you 
can help writing, don't write; for you are evidently no 
poet, though you may have talent, and may believe 
(very likely will) from the unnaturalness of it that you 
are great. 

The genius which forces the poet to write is the same 
g^us that is ever reaching out of the poem and beck- 
oning us upwards. Thus much for the present as to 
what constitutes the poet. 

Now as to poetry. Though we cannot hope to arrive 
at the seat of its mysterious fountain of inspiration and 
bind its hidden springs of immortality, we shall never- 
theless, in earnest search, by upward, honest, toilsome 



7^ WHA T IS POETR Y? 

flight, at least behold the beauty-embodying mountain 
heights whence its rivers of eternal glory flow, and 
whither the soul must ever soar to drink of its purest 
living waters ;=-waters that purify mortality and reflect 
Divinity, and make the soul bathed in them and drunken 
of them better know its own vastness, grandeur, and 
divinity. 

Until the soul by this upward flight shall have beheld 
itself thus divinely reflected in the immortal streams of 
poetry, it can never feel and know its own vastness, its 
infinitude. Likewise, until it shall have bathed in and 
drunk of these mighty purifying waters of goodness, 
truth, and beauty, the soul can never know the divinity 
and immortality of poetry. Thus, if the soul know not 
the one, it cannot know the other ; the two knowledges 
are reciprocal. 

It may be said aesthetically and as nearly scientifically 
as it can well be said, that poetry is naturally rhythmical 
and metrical imaginative language interpreting the Di- 
vine in the human heart. This defines at once, as 
nearly as can well be defined in a single sentence, the 
Form (or mechanism), the Spirit, and the Mission of 
poetry. 

Form we can define and anatomize, just as we can de- 
fine and anatomize the human body. The spirit of po- 
etry we cannot define and anatomize, just as we cannot 
define and anatomize the human soul. Form alone 
cannot constitute a poem, just as body alone cannot con- 
stitute a man. Spirit alone may constitute poetry (in 
the abstract) though not a concrete poem, just as the 
soul alone may constitute life though not a living man. 
Just as both bodj and soul are necessary to constitute a 



:WH AT IS POETRY? 79 

man, so also "both form and spirit are necessary to con- 
stitute any of his visible art-creations, as a poem. 

FORM. 

The requisites of iform are rhythm and metre. The 
accidents of form are rhyme (consonance), assonance, 
•stanza, alliteration, onomatopoeia, etc., etc. 

Rhythm has to do with the kind of feet in a line, 
"while metre has to do with the number of feet in a line. 
Rhythm corresponds with the regular rise and fall of 
the waves of the sea, each wave-length being counted 
•g. poetic foot. Metre corresponds with the swell of the 
•sea, composed of several successive waves. Thus metre 
is, after all, a kind of rhythm, — the larger ebb and flow 
of rhythm. 

The accidents of form, such as rhyme, stanza, allit- 
■eration, etc. , we find worthily and advantageously used 
in much true poetry, as well as worthlessly used in the 
tawdry puppet-shows of mere mechanicians ; — those per- 
sons who, having nothing to say, yet attempting to say 
-something, mistake rhj^me for sense, a tickling jingle 
for meaning, their desire to create for the creative power. 
They do not rightly read nor well heed the trite epi- 
.grammatic precept, " When you have nothing to say, 
;say it." 

But these accidents of form, I say, are sometimes 
material aids to the thought.; indeed, always are when 
used not for their own sakes but for the meaning's sake. 
Notwithstanding this fact, many of our greatest poems, 
«uch as Paradise Lost and others on the epic order, as 
well as many not epic, lack ihese accidents either wholly 
or in part. 

On the other hand, rhythm and metre are found in all 



8o IVHA T IS POETR Y? 

poetic forms, and are the only two elements of the form 
of poetry that are thus found. Hence, rhythm and metre 
are not only essentials but they are the only essentials 
of form, and constitute the complete body in which the 
spirit of poetry naturally and inevitably clothes itself. 
They are, therefore, just as necessary to poetry in its 
concrete or visible forms as the spirit is. 

But since rhythm and metre are thus essential to a 
poem, it is the common custom to call anything poetry 
that has this external appearance of the poetic. 

This is a misapplication of terms. There is so much 
trash masquerading in the poetic garb that this misap- 
plication inevitably throws ridicule upon true poetry. 

Rhythm, when carried to excess and when used not 
for the meaning's sake, the feeling's sake, but for the 
rhythm's sake alone, becomes simply jingle ; quite in- 
variably a rhyming jingle at that. 

]\Ietre, in company wdth rhythm and rhyme, is often 
diverted from its true purpose and used solely to jiggle 
some fact or some epigram into the memory, as illus- 
trated by " Thirty days," etc., and by all other didactic 
metrical arrangements, as mentioned farther on. 

But rhymes and jingles and metrical arrangements 
are not poetry. They are simply members of the form, 
the dancing legs and arms of the body, sometimes pos- 
sessed of life with an indwelling guiding spirit, and 
sometimes whittled out of wood and set in motion by an 
inspiring string. These senseless puppets, or jumping- 
jacks, sometimes, indeed often, tickle the mob by 
their lively antics; but the great final judgment of hu- 
manity relegates them to the rubbish-heap and forgets, 
their ephemeral and unlovely existence. 



IV HA T IS POE TRY? 8 1 

It is, I say, a misnomer to dignify such by the name 
of poetry. The proper name is verse. Whatever is 
rhythmical and metrical, whether it has any of the ac- 
cidents of form or not, is verse. Hence, all poetry is 
verse, bnt not all verse is poetry. Indeed, not one ten- 
thousandth part of verse is poetry ; for the requisite of 
verse is simply form,— the body into which the spirit 
must enter ere it becomes poetry. To illustrate,— 
' ' Thirty days hath September, 
April, June, and November," etc., 

has the form of poetry without the slightest touch of the 
poetic spirit ; thus constituting verse, simple and pure. 
It requires no penetration to perceive that it is not poet- 
ry, though I doubt not that nine hundred ninety-nine 
out of every thousand have called that stanza in the 
usual loose way "a verse of poetry." 

But it is not only not poetry, but it is also not a verse, 
though it is verse; for a verse is but one line of the po- 
etic form, while verse \^ the form itself. It is not poetry 
because it has merely form without spirit. As well 
call the dead body a man (which indeed we sometimes 
do in the same loose way) as call such by the name of 
poetry. 

But the body of a man without the soul is a dead 
man ; that is, not a man at all. So also the body of one 
of his visible art-creations, as of poetry, without the 
spirit, is dead art, a dead poem ;— no poem at all. 

Is it not so? Only look at our thousands of dailies, 
weeklies, monthlies, quaterlies, and whatnotlies, where 
millions of these poetry-bodies lie buried, smelling too 
much of mortality ; then turn to the time-glorified tomes 
of Chaucer, Shakespeare, Burns, Milton, Homer, Virgil, 



8 2 IVHA T IS POETR V? 

and their eternal co-endurers for a breath of heaven. 
Let this be the final answer. 

Rhythm, it may be said (taking it beyond the realms 
of concrete poetry), is the music of Nature. It is Na- 
ture's natural expression, if I may so speak. All her 
motions are rhythmical, have ripples and waves ; even 
at rest her forms lie in the rhythmic order. 

Wherever billows beat the crags, or ripples kiss the 
sands ; wherever winds go soughing through the pines, 
or zephyrs toss a curl ; wherever snows may drive to 
drifts, or wheat-fields billow green and gold ; wherever 
drifting clouds, or dreaming skies, or bordering trees 
are hung dependent on the smooth lake's waters; wher- 
ever birds may sing, or flowers bloom, or rivers run ; 
wherever thunders wake, or hills and valleys sleep ; — 
there is rhythm, there is music, there is Nature's per- 
fect hannony. 

Nor is it different in man. Nature's crown triumph- 
ant. In throes of pain or woe's distress; in joys that 
iris happy tears ; in sorrow's mournful cadences ; in 
laughter's lilting melody; in peace and bounteous 
plenty, or in war and woeful famine ; in love or hate, 
or life or death ; — through all of man's existence, there 
again is rhythm. Passion's only melody, the music of 
the soul. 

True, in the calms of life, although 'tis there, we lit- 
tle feel this rhythm, — this adjusting process by which 
man inevitably seeks to put the heart in tune while here 
for higher harmonies hereafter. But when the soul's 
deep feeling is aroused, then listen to its rhythmic ebb 
aud flow like gently wimpling waters or like the surging 
beat, beat, beat upon the sands. 



WHA T IS POETR Y? 83 

Hear the lonesome cadences of sorrow crying up to 
heaven; hsten to the joyousness that tinkles through 
the melody of laughter; hark the sharp, quick, fierce 
beat in the surge of righteous anger ; hear the tender, 
mellow music from the soothing lips of Love, — divine, 
immortal Love — and dream of other worlds and better 
things as you listen thus transported. 

When these passions of the soul would express them- 
selves in words, the words, too, fashioned by the spirit 
that enters them, must inevitably move in rhythm, and, 
in the greater wave-lengths, fit themselves to metre. 
This feeling, or passion, that enters rhythmic words — 
that unswervingly seeks rhythm as the only form in 
which it can express itself — is the spirit of poetry. Thus 
it is that poetr}" comes about ; thus it is that poetry is 
spontaneous and not the result of long meditation ; thus 
it is that poetry is the natural outlet of highly-wrought 
or great feeling. ^ 

SPIRIT. 

As in man, so in all art of man, the soul within fash- 
ions the body without. True beauty is soul-beauty; 
that beauty that is in the heart and is felt by the heart, 
without which there can be no physical beauty. 

Whatever in the world is beautiful, is beautiful just 
in proportion to the beauty of the soul that sees it. 
Thus if we would find beauty, we must first have it. 
The white-flecked blue of the skies of June; the wren 
or peewee pouring fourth its perfume-drunken melodies 
from among the apple-blossoms; the stretch of plain 
or towering height of mountain ; the scenes of hill or 
valley, wood or meadow, lake or river ; the Apollo Bel- 
vedere ; the great Transfiguration ; Paradise Lost ; — na- 



84 WHA T IS POETR Y? 

ture's various forms and reproductions — have no beauty 
to the heart whose cavities are empty. But to the full 
soul, the soul of beauty, they are perpetual springs of 
life, where Divinity is ever mirrored forth ; for the soul 
gives what it gets, and gets what it gives, and the get- 
ting is proportioned to the giving. Give, and we get ; 
keep, and we lose. 

But what is it in an Apollo, a Transfiguration, a Par- 
adise Lost that feeds this soul-hunger ; that possesses this 
beauty? — The marble of the Apollo? Hard by lies the 
rough, unchiseled Parian marble ; but it has no beauty. 
' — The painted canvas of the Transfiguration ? Sitting 
before it, there are yearly hundreds of canvases and 
brushes and paints and paintings; but they lack the 
beauty. — The words, the rhythm, the metre, the music 
of Paradise Lost ? Millions of productions, from musty 
tomes in the British Museum to the upper left-hand 
corner of the " patent inside " of a newspaper, have all 
these ; but no beauty. 

What then ? That same indefinable something which 
in man we call the soul, and in art, the spirit; that which 
the admiring soul instinctively feels and recognizes. 

Had the sculptor never touched his chisel to the mar- 
ble, nor the painter his brush to the canvas, nor the 
poet his pen to the paper, that same spirit, yet not 
bodied, would have existed within his own soul, but 
never would have been beheld by others. To be seen 
by other eyes, it must needs take on a visible body, a 
concrete form, in which it shall dwell. 

Thus all forms of Nature and all forms of Art, what- 
soever, are the mere bodying expressions of the spirit 
that inhabits them. Form is necessary, but only as a 



WHA T IS POETR Y? 85 

medium throug-h which the spirit may reveal itself 
visibly. 

The intuitive and unconscious recognition of this prin- 
ciple, that the soul within fashions the body it inhabits, 
—the grandest principle of all God's great laws, the foun- 
dation of them all, illimitable as the immortal Giver 

is the door-way through which he who thus recognizes 
must inevitably enter Nature and Art to enjoy the full 
communion of the soul within, and to interpret the 
beauties of that soul's divinity to us. 

He who thus enters is possessed of genius. In other 
words, he has a great soul and lives close to Nature's 
heart. We of lesser genius, or of less loving souls (for 
a great soul is one that loves greatly) commune with 
the indwelling spirit less freely. If we approach Nature 
or Art consciously and try to unlock some side-door 
by the key of the intellect, we shall probably find only 
cast-off garments ; nay, many of us may find that the 
door will not open and we must content ourselves with 
a peep through the key-hole. Indeed, do not the mul- 
titude behold the elegant structures of Nature and i\rt 
wonderingly for but a moment, without even so nr.ich 
as attempting the key-hole, and then plod on, uncon- 
scious that there is an indwelling soul that has thus 
fashioned its earthly home? 

This same great foundation-principle of Nature is 
likewise the fundamental law of poetry and of all other 
art. For art, at best, is nature wrought by man. What 
else can it be? It is fashioned by simply a lesser Divin- 
ity, the soul of man, consequently less perfectly, and 
follows the same law. Or better yet, art is nature 
wrought through the instrumentality of man by the 



86 IVHA T IS POETR Y? 

great Divinity that works in him. Art is simply a name 
used to designate a specific manifestation or kind of 
nature ; — that kind that comes through man, and has, 
not life, but spirit ; not life, but the picture, the show, 
the mirrored image of life : a sort of record of the soul, 
and a lamp for its future guidance. 

He who, by means of rhythmic words inspirited, can 
paint this picture, represent this show, mirror this 
image of life, historicize this record of the soul, light 
this lamp and hold it above the heads of the trampling 
ages for the guidance of humanity, is the great poet. 

Just in proportion to the greatness of such a soul will 
be the spirit that imbues his creations. It cannot cre- 
ate a new form imless it first implants some germ from 
its own spiritual self. Not only must there be the 
spirit as the prime essential of poetry, the soul within 
that fashions the rhythmical and metrical form it in- 
habits, but that spirit must partake of that divinity that 
is in every human heart ; — that divine flower, deep-rooted 
in the soil of God, sometimes blossoming to an angel- 
image, sometimes painting the glories of heaven on 
its petals, sometimes breathing its deepest-drawn per- 
fumes up from its muse-beloved blooms to the throne 
above. 

Would the soul create a statue, it must see ' ' an an- 
gel in that marble " ere it give the angel form ; would it 
paint a picture, it must behold within itself the trans- 
figuration ere it live transfigured on the canvass ; would 
it write a poem, it must be a paradise of eternal love 
and beauty ere it breathe immortal glory into words. 

It is this soul within that comes out of the maker of 
the statue, the maker of the picture, the maker of the 



WHAT IS POETRY? 87 

melody, the maker of the poem, and enters his creations, 
that distinguishes true art from mere mechanism of art. 

It is this same soul within that renders the artist, not 
a chiseler of stone, a painter of canvas, a placer of notes, 
a rhymer of words, but a maker, a creator, in his own 
lesser realm of nature. 

It is this same intangible soul, just within yet just be- 
yond the touch of our finger-tips as we reach out farther 
and farther into the dim unknown, this same indefina- 
ble spirit of beauty, shining through the form that it in- 
habits, permeating it inscrutably, that somehow passes 
out of the poem into the heart of the admirer, then slips 
out of his heart into the poem again, and so on and on, 
again and again, ever lifting the admiring soul as the 
poem itself is lifted higher still and ever higher. 

MISSION. 

This practical age, "this nineteenth century Avith its 
knife and glass," ever botanizing and anatomizing, an- 
alyzing and scrutinizing in every possible way, is con- 
stantly asking, "What is it good for? " ; "Of what use 
is it? " And whatever the knife and glass cannot explain 
to the fact-loving intellect; whatever the age cannot 
thus analyze and convert into ready cash or daily bread, 
it is wont to relegate to the Lethean Limbo of Useless- 
ness. — As if the mind of man were constituted of in- 
tellect, pocket, and stomach, and whatever did not go 
to the filling of these were useless. 

It is well and just and right, indeed, that any age 
should thus inquire, especially as to material things, so 
long as it does not dwarf other faculties by giving all 
sustenance to one. To ask concerning poetry, "What 
is it good for?", "Of what use is it?", is simply to ask 



88 IVHA T IS POETR Vf 

in a different form, " What is the soul good for? " ; "Of 
what use is a God!" There is nothing in God's uni- 
verse that does not have utiUty. 

But to examine specifically and logically, and thus to 
discover somewhat of the mission, the utility of poetry. 

In order to do this, we must naturally refer to the 
human mind, since thence poetry is brought forth and 
there it is perceived. 

There are three great divisions of the mind ; namely, 
Intellect, Sensibilties, or Feelings, and Will. 

The intellect is that power of the mind by which we 
think and know. The sensibilities, or feelings, consti- 
tute that power of the mind by which we feel. The will 
is that power of the mind by which we resolve to do or 
not to do. These explanations are sufficient for our 
present purpose. 

Therefore, whatever furnishes food for the intellect, 
the knowing-power t)f the mind, must be of the nature 
of knowledge, didactic. Whatever ministers to the 
feelings must waken emotion Whatever gives action 
to the will must rouse resolution. 

All literature is for the mind. But since there are 
three departments of the inind, and since literature is 
produced by and for the mind, there must naturally be 
three divisions of literature that each mental power may 
receive sustenance. That is, there should be that liter- 
ature for the intellect in which knowledge predominates. 
For the sensibilities, there should be that literature in 
which feeling, emotion, is the primary and essential 
element. For the will, there should be that literature 
that has for its chief end the rousing of resolution. 

On examination of the literary products of the world, 



WHAT IS POETRY? 89 

we find that this philosophy is sustained. For the in- 
tellect, we have treatises (as on the sciences, mathemat- 
ics, etc.), histories, biographies, novels, romances, es- 
says, etc. , etc. The primary object of these is to furnish 
knowledge; to satisfy the intellect. They are in the 
highest sense didactic, although, of course, just as the 
literature for each faculty does, they incidentally fur- 
nish some food for the other powers. 

This intellective literature is the kind that is most 
largely cultivated at the present. In fact, it is culti- 
vated almost to the exclusion of the other two. 

For the will, we have sermons, lectures, orations, 
speeches, addresses, harangues, etc. ; a class of litera- 
ture that is small when compared with the preceding. 
These two departments of the mind monopolize the 
whole doinain of prose. 

That other department of literature, in which feeling 
is the dominating and pervading principle, must, by 
its very nature, act upon that same power of the mind 
that produced it ; namely, the sensibilities. 

Poetry is the literature of feeling, and consequently 
finds its province here. It is the mission of poetry, 
therefore, as suggested by the latter part of the defini- 
tion, to minister to the feelings, to interpret the Divine 
in the human heart. It is this that all writers on the 
subject and that all poets mean when they say it is the 
mission of poetry to give pleasure. 

But what shall be the limit of that word "pleasure "? 
Herein lies the chief cause of great differences of opin- 
ion, especially with those who hold that there is such a 
thing as didactic poetry. Or rather, what is the true 
meaning of "pleasure" as thus used? The very essence 



90 IV//A T IS POETR Y? 

of pleasure, as opposed to pain, is that it gratify some 
emotion and set it at perfect rest. 

What emotions when gratified are at perfect rest? 
The answer at once forces itself upon us, only the bet- 
ter emotions. That poetry does minister to and satisfy 
the higher and nobler feelings, and that what does not 
do this is not poetry, even the meanest heart that it 
touches fully knows. 

The attempted gratification of hate, or of any desire 
whatsoever to give pain to any one, as illustrated in 
Pope's Dunciad, Dryden's Absalom and AcJiitopJiel, But- 
ler's Hudibras, Byron's English Bards and Scotch Re- 
viewers^ and all such, never sets the mind of the writer 
at rest, nor gives enjoyment to the reader. Indeed, who 
now ever reads these, the world's greatest illustrations, 
of wittv bitterness and venom, couched in verse and 
unjustifiably designated as poetry? 

These are accounted "great works." But who, let 
me ask, ever reads any of these "great works," or ever 
heard of them, except in some text on Literature? Or, 
having- read them, who loves them, or their authors for 
having written them? None. No, not one. 

On the other hand, who has not read some of the no- 
blest works of Shakespeare, Burns, Milton, Tennyson, 
Longfellow, Bryant, Lowell, Whittier, Holmes? And 
who does not feel nobler for having read, and who does 
not hold these authors shrined in his heart of hearts for 
having written? Is not this proof enough that it is the 
mission of poetry to minister only to the higher emo- 
tions? 

After all, hate is merely the negative of love ; simply 
the absence of the better emotion, a void, an ache, a 



WHA T IS POETR Y? 91 

pain. All attempts to g-ratify it only make it stronger 
— or rather drive the better emotion farther away — as 
illustrated by the cases of Pope, Dryden, Byron, and 
their fellows in revenge and bitterness wherever we 
find them. No one ever felt better or nobler or happier 
for gratifying a hate, for doing a bad deed, or for giving- 
pain to a fellow-mortal's feelings. The ever-accusing- 
conscience, if he but listen, will never permit him to 
say in his heart that such gratification has given him 
pleasure. 

If, then, it is the mission of poetry to give pleasure, 
no matter whether its interpretation of the Divine in 
the human heart be by tears or by laughter, its minis- 
tration necessarily must be to the immortal part of 
man. 

In the light of all this, therefore, without further 
argument, it is clear and conclusive that all verse that 
is sarcastic, satiric, etc., such as that of Swift, Butler, 
Pope, Gay, Prior, and their hosts, is not poetry. 

But what of the didactic? Whatever has the primary 
object of teaching delivers its treasures to the keeping 
of the intellect. If, therefore, verse aiins primarily to 
teach, but ministers to the sensibilities only incidentally, 
it is not true poetry. Poetry does not teach nor preach 
nor argue nor discuss. Those are the provinces of 
prose. Poems and roses must not teach ; they must 
bloom. Their breath delights us, their suggestions, 
their reflections of a Divinity that is above them, lifts 
us — God knows why! The cry of pain, the romping 
laugh of children at play, the pathos of death, the touch 
of the hand or the lips of the one we love needs no ar- 
gument to fill the heart with uncontrollable emotion. 



92 WHA T IS POETR Y? 

These are the sweetest of the poet's themes, and he has 
but to reveal them without argument as they are expe- 
rienced in the heart. Argument kills them. Just in 
proportion to the didactic character of verse the path of 
poetry is departed from, and the realm of prose in- 
vaded. You cannot find a solitary purely didactic piece 
of verse the meaning of which could not be better ex- 
pressed in prose. Not so with true poetry. That can- 
not be expressed in any other way. 

The most illustrious types of the didactic are to be 
found in the "Artificial School," at the head of which 
stands Pope. When we cut out the satiric and the sar- 
castic and all ill-feeling verse, as we see we must, and 
then the didactic, as we are forced by reason and logic 
to do, how much real poetry do we have left in this 
"School" so well named "Artificial"? How much is 
there left that makes the heart feel larger, nobler, 
better, and gives it new fountains of life? Only a rare 
gem now and then in the form of a single felicitous line 
or happily wedded couplet. Then, when we cut this 
same kind of verse out of the whole literature of the 
world, and also that other kind, already spoken of at 
length, in which there is merely spiritless poetic form as 
its chief element, how mtich real poetry and how many 
real poets does the world possess? Com.paratively, only 
a few poets, the world's great, and a few of their works 
— those that have already stood the test of time and 
that still stand the only true test of good literature, that 
it inspires the heart with noble feelings and lofty pur- 
poses — can be placed in the list. 

But enough on the kinds of verse. 

Another question concerning pleasure arising from 



IVHA T IS POETR Yf 93 

poetry presents itself. " Violent delights have violent 
ends and in their triumph die." The poetic, by its very 
nature, is violent. Consequently, the mind cannot 
long imbibe its intoxicating draughts. A little at a time 
is exhilarating and invigorating ; but an over-dose dead- 
ens the sensibilities, and often creates a serious dislike 
for the poetic and a consequent tmconscious restlessness 
of longing for the satisfaction of the higher emotions 
that prose can never furnish. 

The mind cannot long endure extreme exertion, just, 
as the body cannot. Poetry requires extreme exertion 
of the sensibilities, consequently its duration should be 
short that its full delight and pleasure may be enjoyed. 
Since this is so, every poem, by the very nature of the 
mind, must be brief. Who would live in a conservatory 
of roses where their sweet scent, most delightful at first 
breath, soon becomes sickening? Or who would hold 
even one of those odorous blooms to the nose for 
long? Who, on the other hand, does not delight in an 
occasional sip of the scent of a bursting rose-bud? And 
who does not find new delight at each successive 
draught, and regret that the petals that breathe this 
odor for us, alas! must fade and fall? 

I believe most profoundly with Poe that, from the 
standpoint of the mind that produces and the mind that 
perceives and enjoys it, there is no such thing as a long 
poem. I shall go farther, and say, not only that a poem 
must be short, but that it must be lyrical. This gets us 
back to nature. Historically the first literature of every 
nation is poetry, and that poetry is invariably lyrical ; in- 
deed, even inevitably so. In every nation, we find it is 
many centuries before these lyrics of the nation are 



94 WHA T IS POETR Y? 

gathered up and finally strung on the thread of narra- 
tive, thus making the Epic. From the lyric, all imag- 
inable forms have been brought forth by ingenious poets 
of later day. The bard of simple days lived, not close to 
nature's intellect, but close to nature's heart. Burns was 
the best poet of modern days, because he did the same; 
consequently, he is always lyrical when he is natural. 

Shall we then say that the ^neid, the Odyssey, the 
Iliad, the Canterbury Tales, the Faery Queen, or Para- 
dise Lost is each one poem? Viewed as I have just re- 
marked, and that (in its relation to the mind) is the only 
true way to view a poem, none of these is a single poem. 
Each is made up of a number of poems — gems strung on 
the thread of a common subject; — roses in a common 
conservatory. 

Indeed, the whole of Homer is simply a collection 
of a great number of short poems — lyrics, indeed, they 
were — sung by many authors for centuries, and finally 
gathered up and pieced together to form books and vol- 
umes. Each one of the Canterbury Tales contains 
many poems, strung together to form one necklace of 
jewels. 

I ask any one to sit down and read any of these great 
and wonderful works continuously one day, as he might 
prose, and comprehend what he is reading. Not even 
one book of Paradise Lost can be read (in the true sense 
of that word) at a single sitting. There are too many 
poems in it, and the consequent demands upon the 
mind are too great for that. Possibly this very fact 
had somewhat to do with calling forth the unjust re- 
mark from Waller concerning that great epic, " If its 
length be not considered as a merit it hath no other." 



WHA T IS POETR Y? 95 

Since a poem must be brief, naturally, and for the 
:same cause, it should be read judiciously and at inter- 
vals, if it is to be appreciated and enjoyed, just as the 
rose must be smelled only occasionally. We cannot read 
-poetry as we can prose; it won't let us. By their very 
natures they demand a different manner of reading. 
'One can read prose continuously, hour after hour, with- 
out seriously wearying the mind, for the simple reason 
that, in prose, thought is not condensed, but is spread 
through a long series of sentences. Moreover, the 
thought is not, as a rule, simply suggested, but is 
fully expressed, leaving the mind in a comparative state 
of passive receptivity, with but little active labor to per- 
form in order to comprehend the meaning. On the 
other hand, poetry always expresses thought in con- 
densed form and suggests many fold more than it ex- 
presses. Consequently, a single stanza or even a single 
line may sometimes require as much attention for the 
full comprehension of its meaning and suggestion, as a 
whole page of ordinary prose. 

We must plant the poem in the heart and give it time 

to grow, as we plant the flower-seeds in the soil. Fin- 

.ally, as the growing flower bursts into bloom, so must 

the poem blossom from the heart into its full perfection 

,and beauty. 

Fully to appreciate that flower's beauty, it must not 
be dissected and analyzed by glass and scalpel. Did 
Burns go botanizing the daisy? Need we then go bot- 
.anizing these flowers and blossoms of the soul of man? 
He who does it tries to force the intellect to do what 
the emotive nature, the beauty-loving part of man, alone 
♦ can do. There .is. an intellectual delight in botanizing 



9 6 WHA T IS POE TR Y? 

and in picking to pieces and analyzing the gathered 
specimens, but it is not that sweet, soul-inspiring pleas- 
ure born of the love of the beautiful that the heart alone 
can feel. He who botanizes the beautiful can never 
know in his head the supreme pleasure that he who 
loves the simple daisy too well to turn it under the sod 
feels in his heart. 

Poetry is indeed immortal and divine. It is the 
breath of heaven in the nostrils of man, the divinity of 
the human soul, the heart in full flower and bloom. To 
an honest, earnest, sincere soul, it is the wonder of the 
age, as it has ever been the wonder of all ages, that 
' ' men endowed with highest gifts, the vision and the 
faculty divine," being divinely appointed as poet-priest 
of the Almighty, should pander to the prurient taste of 
a so-called practical public ; — that they should sell the 
divinity within them for a strip of royal purple ; for a 
salve to an itching palm ; — that they should barter im- 
mortality for a glitter-jingle. 

But how shall this consummate artist not fall into the 
corruptions that beset him and his art divine? Here are 
the driveling jinglers, verse-makers, poetasters all about 
him, with their rattling, rollicking, banging tin-panery, 
loudly applauded by a rough-and-ready guffawing pub- 
lic; a "practical " public that loudly clamors for sense, 
fact, — and then drops another penny into the chapeaux 
of these venders of cheap jewelry for more of their ap- 
plauded cheap sentiment and glittering platitudes, and 
jingling chains and necklaces, and rings, and things, 
whose brightness wears off in their mental pockets before 
the wife or sweetheart is gladdened by a glimpse of its 
"practical " glitter! 



IV HA T IS POETR Y? 97 

The great, true poet, he who alone is interpreter of 
the immortal in the mortal, the invisible in the visible 
by means of words, never asks how to avoid these cor- 
ruptions. He does it. He despises, hates, abhors them. 
He does it, too, by obeying- that Divinity within him. 
Obedient to that call, he walks majestically through this 
motley crowd ; — aye, through this sometimes maudlin, 
jeering crowd that throw stones at him and mentally 
would crucify him ! — and sets some stream of Beauty 
and Glory flowing through the hearts of men, forever 
to wash away these corruptions and stagnations of the 
human soul. Aye, truly! he asks not how, but teaches 
us how. Was it not so with those old Divine Writers, 
our highest type of poets, whose inspirations make the 
one Immortal Book? So shall it ever be. 'Tis the Di- 
vine Law. 

Such a poet, interpreting nature and mirroring Divin- 
ity, and thus idealizing life that the seeing, aspiring 
soul may attain nearer its illimitable possibilities, we 
call an original poet, a genius. He is never a "popu- 
lar " poet, as that term is used, but he is quite generally 
unpopular. Popular in the sense of time-enduring he is 
by that same Divine Law that brings him into existence. 
His soul will inevitably have some greatness in common 
with other great souls. These will rescue him and com- 
mend him to an increasing posterity ; and so on and on, 
touching more and more souls, and thus seeming to 
grow ever better and better, though in reality he remains 
ever unchanged, while the souls he touches are the ones 
that ever strive to his greater height, and draw up 
numbers with them. 

Thus does he whom an unappreciating, small-souled 



98 WHA T IS POETR Y? 

mob would have crucified, become immortal through the 
reciprocal divinity that is in himself and in the heart of 
humanity. Thus does, thus must, this poet-genius cre- 
ate — call into activity — the taste that must make him 
time-enduring. This is the penalty of genius and great- 
ness — to suffer, and then triumphantly to endure forever 
in the hearts of men. Who would he were not a genius? 
Who would he were? In proof of all this, witness 
Shakespeare, Milton, Wordsworth, not to speak of all 
the greatest Great. 

I love that unswerving poetic genius who, in the face 
of taunts and revilings and sneers, still is obedient to 
that sublime divinity within him ; who, conscious of his 
own soul's illimitable vastness, must inevitably write 
for that soul's satisfaction, and thus write, not for the 
present generation, but for posterity ; and who, when he 
"wraps the drapery of his couch about him," having 
obeyed the divine voice within him even to his latest 
breath, finally triumphs over all sneers and taunts and 
jeers, triumphs even over death, and, though dead, tri- 
umphantly lives in immortal words that still speak to us 
more and more divinely through the trumpet-soul of the 
more and more divine ages. 

Such a poet, I say, must create the taste that will 
make him time-enduring. In other words, this true 
poet, this genius (else he were no genius at all), must see 
some relation of soul to soul not ordinarily seen, and 
never at all seen in exactly the same way, and so express 
that relation in words that humanity can but recognize 
it from the very fact of its commonness, its universality. 
Such a poet never follows public opinion, in the narrow 
sense of the opinion of a transitory present ; but through 



WHA T IS POETR Y? 99 

great trials and suffering and much enduring generally, 
he leads it, or creates it rather, and develops it into that 
broader, truer public opinion, — humanity's opinion; the 
only opinion, I should say, that is equal to that of a 
great soul. 

The great never follow, but ever lead. They never 
pander to a perverted public taste, but follow their own 
convictions; and thus following the guiding power 
within them, they lead others in the same path. Thus 
drawn onwards and upwards by that link which binds 
man unto God, and thus leading humanity aright, they 
instinctively obey the teachings of Him, the Master, 
who "came not to be ministered unto, but to minister " ; 
for they follow in His footsteps by upward leading and 
by thus greatly and divinely serving mankind. 

In a general way, I may say of poets that there are 
two classes: — the introspective, or those whose souls, 
ever standing in the presence of the Divinity within 
them, hear the calls of other souls and the mighty voice 
of God ; and hearing, obey ; — the extrospective, or those 
whose souls, not less divine, but less conscious, perhaps, 
of that Divinity, unconsciously perceive the manifold re- 
lations in external nature, and through the universal 
spirit of nature none the less distinctly hear that same 
Almighty Voice. We shall hardly find a poet in whom 
one of these characteristics exists to the exclusion of 
the other ; but we shall find that in many cases one 
characteristic or the other is dominant. For example. 
Browning is one of our best representatives of the in- 
trospective, and Wordsworth of the extrospective ; while 
Shakespeare is the highest type of the perfect union of 
the two. Both classes obey the same voice, and though 



I oo WHA T IS POETR Y? 

ministering through different sources, have the same 
mission to perform, the uplifting and purifying of the 
human soul. 

Indeed, whatever does not have this mission is not 
true poetry. It is often said that that literature is best 
which has stood the test of time. Not so, if by that is 
meant simply that the literature shall have lived long ; 
for both good and bad live. The true test is that it bet- 
ters man's estate, and ennobles his heart. If a poem 
inspires the heart with nobler feelings and greater love, 
then it is a good poem. This is the crucial, the only 
true test. 

There is no act of the human mind that is not con- 
trolled by the feelings. When this is comprehended 
and when, at the same time, it is perceived to what an 
extent poetry ministers to the feelings, the utility of 
poetry will be better appreciated. Poetry thus minister- 
ing to the controlling forces of life, is a guide and cor- 
rective of life ; a guide in that it is " a representation of 
life" (as Alfred Austin has it), the experiences of the 
hearts of men ; a corrective in that it is ' ' a criticism of 
life " (as Matthew Arnold says), an idealization that, by 
uplifting, corrects the heart that else would droop. 
Austin thinks his idea opposes Arnold's. It does not. 
Each simply looks at one side ; each takes a different 
angle. Both are correct so far as they go. For poetry 
is the heart's history. It is also the ever present attempt, 
in the light of that guiding lamp, to the making of a 
better history. 

This, indeed, makes it philosophy. For what else 
does philosophy do? The poet is ever a philosopher. 
Is not poetry philosophy teaching by experience? It 



IV//A T IS POETR Y? i o i 

does not teach by precept, it is not didactic ; that is the 
province of prose ; but it mirrors the human heart and 
reveals its experiences. Nine hundred ninety-nine peo- 
ple shape their lives by experience where one shapes 
his by rule and thumb. One rose of experience with its 
warning thorns has more of humanity and guidance in 
it than all the tangle-woods of teaching. The hand 
must follow the heart. If the heart be right the hand 
can never go wrong. 

He who would be an immortal poet must have a great 
and sympathizing heart ; a heart that laughs and weeps, 
and most of all, a heart that loves. Were I asked the 
one essential of the poet, that essential which includes 
all minor requisites, I should answer. Love. ''A Poet 
without Love," says Carlyle, "were a physical and a 
metaphysical impossibility." It is the dominating ele- 
ment of all great poets. What poet is greater, or what 
one has loved more deeply than Burns? 

Love often reveals itself in sorrow and in humor. 
Though the poet need not be a humorist, must not be 
at all times, as the term is used, it is nevertheless es- 
sential that he have a lively appreciation of the ludi- 
crous, lest he fall into grave errors of thought and ex- 
pression. But the humor must not be the all-pervading 
element of his poetry; it should be simply a check, a 
guide, or sometimes a spur. A keen sense of humor 
should be to him the lash that whips thought out of its 
self-constituted morbid glooms, in which it appears 
ridiculous, into a lively harmony with things as they 
reallyare to the hearts of men. It were, indeed, a nice 
question to determine how far the grave or the humor- 
ous should enter poetic composition to the exclusion of 



I o 2 WHA T IS POETR V f 

the other. Certainly the most felicitous poetry is not all 
rain nor all shine, but the iris of UUoa struck out of the 
depths of tears by the happy, hopeful shine of laughter. 

But if the poet laugh, he must also love ; for he laughs 
because he loves. This is the divine law. The man 
who hates never laughs ; he may mock. Well may we 
ponder that. Indeed, tears and laughter, sometimes, 
blended, are but forms of love. If laughter is music, 
certainly love, that divine gift in the human heart, love 
of the good, the beautiful, and the true, love of home, of 
country, of mankind, of God, or of a beautiful image of 
God, the one who is the heart's ideal, divine immortal 
love, is perfect harmony. If the poet's theme is of the 
good, the beautiful, and the true, so must his love be. 
If these dwell not in his heart, he shall search the world 
and the ages through and not find them ; and if love 
dwell not there with them, his themes shall never touch 
our hearts. 

But the poet, to be appreciated, is not the only one 
that must possess these qualities. It is the beauty and 
the love in the soul of him who is touched by the statue, 
the painting, the melody, the poem, that makes it beau- 
tiful to him. It is thus that we help the poet make the 
poem. Love makes poets of us all. 

With our hearts thus tuned to the touch of the 
Maker's hand, we may often hold sweet communion 
with our poet-friends whose love still reaches out to 
us through the mists of ages and beckons us to the 
Valhalla of the happy. We may stand alone in the 
stern, inquisitorial presence of self under the eye of 
Almighty God, and think thoughts our tongues can 
never tell. 



IVHA T IS POETR Y? 103 

Strolling arm in arm with good Dan Chaucer as 

" . . fiery Phoebus riseth up so bright 
That all the orient laugheth of the light," 

we may meet and join company with immortal Shake- 
speare, where 

" . . . the morn, in russet mantle clad, 
Walks o'er the dew of yond high eastern hill" ; 

and then with them both we may pass down the slope 
to the sea-shore where we clasp hands with Laureate 
Tennyson and, as we listen to the break, break, break 
upon the sands, say in our hearts with him, 

"And I would that my tongue could utter 
The thoughts that arise in me." 

With Milton we may plunge to the lowest depths and 

rise to the greatest heights, and stand with him at last 

in a Paradise regained. With Dryden we may shout 

from the golden-tipped top of the mount of lyric song 

to the battling brave below, 

"If the world be worth thy winning, 
Think, oh think it worth enjoying" ; 

and hear the reverberant echoes along the channeled 
valleys of the soul of Gray, 

"The paths of glory lead but to the grave." 
With Whittier, longing to do and doing the greatest 
good of which we are capable, we may often question, 
"What, my soul, was thy errand here?" 
Listening to the Preacher Kingsley, we may learn to 

"Do lovely things, not dream them, all day long; 
And so, make life and death and that vast forever 
One grand, sweet song." 

In our sadder moods we may, with Cowper, look 



1 04 WHA T IS POETR Y? 

across the dark, Cimmerian tide and recall the face and 
the kiss and the touch of a mother gone. In our gayer 
hours, with Burns we may gather sweet field flowers 
and garland them in love ; and, whether in field or shop 
or kirk, learn somewhat 

" To see oursels as others see us." 

With Wordsworth, receiving those faint intimations 
of immortality from recollections of early childhood, we 
may realize 

"That there has passed away a glory from the earth." 

With Lowell we may feel that 

" Daily, with souls that cringe and plot, 
We Sinais climb and know it not." 

If in the pursuit of life we shall have been drawn on- 
wards by that divine link called conscience ; if we shall 
have heeded the advice to the Divinity within us, 

" . . . To thine own self be true ; 
And it must follow as the night the day 
Thou canst not then be false to any man" ; 

if within us daily we shall have said with dear old 
Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes, 

"Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul. 

As the swift seasons roll ! 

Leave thy low-vaulted past ! 
Let each new temple, nobler than the last, 
Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast. 

Till thou at length art free, 
Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea" ; 

if we shall have done all this, I say, and followed God : 
then, when at last with white-haired Bryant each of us 

"lies down to pleasant dreams," 
the Sun shall go down with a golden halo of glory ; 



A MORTAL. 105 

Beauty, eternal Beauty, wedded to immortal Love, shall 
reign forever in the heart ; 

' 'And the night shall be filled with music ; 
And the cares that infest the day 
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, 
And as silently steal away." 



USELESS? 

Flowers are poetry ; poetry, flowers : 

Each is a clod of earth in bloom. 

Useful? Aye, to the heart! — to illume 
The rain-drop drip from the wing of the hours. 

Both are the love of the great dear God 
Set in the sod of the new child-earth. 
Set in the heart at the earth-child's birth, 

Soul of the clay, and bloom of the clod. 

Flowers and poetry — blossoms of Love 
Sweetest and purest the heart can know. 
Breathing their perfumes up from below, 

Lifting us back to the God above. 



A MORTAL. 

Do the goddesses, I wonder, 
Ever come to mortal earth. 

Ever throw a wild enchantment 
Round the heart of mortal birth? 

Does the goddess Venus wander 
Ever from her realms above, 



io6 A MORTAL. 

Liveried in the rarest raiment 
Stolen from the courts of Love? 

Are her eyes of witching azure, 
Curtained o'er with rosy light ; 

And a golden sunset halo 

Round a smiling brow of white? 

Oh I wonder if the roses 
Ever blush upon he?' cheeks 

When the scented kiss of morning 
For the rarest flower seeks. 

Ah, ye purest gems of ocean, 

Set in ruby rays serene, 
Does your light fall down in worship 

When those pearl-dight lips are seen? 

Aye, I wonder if the heavens 
And the flowers of the earth, 

As they smile upon each other. 

Have the hundredth of her worth? 

Do the ripples of the zephyr. 
Or the waves to music wed 

Have the poetry of motion 
That attends her airy tread ? 

Do the Orphic orbs of aether. 

With a lyric hand divine. 
Draw the wandering planets round them 

As her words this heart of mine? 

Surely, surely not a goddess, 
'Tis a mortal I have seen ; 



A MORTAL. 107 

Never goddess wore such features, 
Never goddess such of mien. 

•She's the rarest of the fairest, 

She's the light of every eye ; 
She's the smile of earth and ocean 

And the glory of the sky. 

Hers the lid with golden lashes 

Raised above the Morning's eye; 
Hers the smile of wave and flower 

Caught from out the blushing sky. 

^Oh her cheeks are rose of sunset. 

And her eyes the stars of night ; 
Opening dawn, her lips half parted, 

Laced with gleams of iv'ry light. 

-Lydian music in her being 

An enchanted spirit dwells, 
'Caught from out the hands of angels, 

Hands that swing the hallowed bells. 

Love — the purest love of heaven — 

Had its birth upon her lips ; — 
E'en the flowers toss her kisses 

From their tiny finger-tips. 

'Oh the winds enfold the mountains 
And the seas draw down the stars ; 

•Still they sigh and murmur ever, 
" Never love so pure as hers. " 

And the notes forever rising 
To the planetary seas 



io8 TO MORPHEUS. 

Echo back in spheric music, 
" Never mortals loved as these. 



Heart to heart I clasped my Darling, 
Drew her down from angel hands, 

With my head in God's own presence. 
And my feet upon the sands. — 

Drew her to me from the angels. 

As the silent summer night 
Sweetest scent of all the roses 

To its loving bosom might. 

Day by day her sister angels 
Sing to me her rarest worth ; 

For she's drawing me toward heavert 
As I drew her down to earth. 



TO MORPHEUS. 

Like the star 
That afar 
Throws its silver-wrought beams. 
As it peacefully dreams 
On the cradle-swung crest 
Of the billows of blue, 

Oh on thy breast 
So let me rest, 
Oh rest, 
Rest, 
Till the kiss of the morning dew. 



*- 



TO THEE ABOVE. 109 

A DREAMY APRIL EVENING IN THE WOODS. 

Oh sweet the sounds I hear, the sights I see, — 

The vocal air, the blooming clod ; 
-But sweeter far the thoughts that rise in me, 

So farther earth, so nearer God. 



TO THEE ABOVE. 

Up from the gray of earth, 

Over the hills of blue, 
Out in the purpling west, 

I come, my love, to you. 

•Oh not in the busy marts 

Nor yet in the crowded throng ; 
No, not 'neath the parlor lights 

Does my heart forget its song. 

But bound by the fetters there, 
I cannot choose but stay; 

Like a restive steed bound fast, 
I fret the hours away. 

'Tis only when alone 

I find my soul at rest ; 
'Tis then I rise to thee 

Amid the purpling west. 

And sitting thus this eve 
Atop my house's tower, 
I send my soul in love 
- To dwell with thee this hour. 



no CHORUS. 

Oh ever thus I stand, 

A crag 'mid noisy crowds, — 

My feet upon the sands, 
My head amid the clouds. 

My heart to all is cold 

Save but to thee, Sweet Heart T 
For Death my requiem tolled 

When thou and I didst part. 

I know nor rest nor peace, 
I find nor life nor love 

Save but the silent hour 
I fly to thee above. 



CHORUS. 

(By nymphs and naiads, sylphs and dryads. 

Tripping away, 
Blithesome and gay, 

Light as the ether above. 
Breathing our words 
Sweet as the birds. 

Sing we the power of love. 

Love in its power 
Bindeth the flower 

Unto the common clod, 
Lifting the low 
Out of its woe 

Up to the bosom of God. 



THE LURLEI. lit 

Love in its might 
Bindeth the light 

Unto the shadow of day, 
Flushing the clouds 
Whitened like shrouds 

Red with the last dying ray. 

Love in its dream 
Bindeth the stream 

Unto the channels of earth, 
Lifting the trees 
Kissed by the breeze 

Into a purer birth. 

Heart unto heart 
Never to part 

Joining the gentle and strong, 
Love's dreaming lyre 
Lifts ever higher 

Finding responsive a song. 

Every one, 
Happy or lone, 

Deep in the hills of the soul 
Sometime shall find 
Horn that shall wind 

Echoes that endless shall roll. 

THE LURLEL 

Only a moment ! The Lurlei staid 

Only a moment with me : 
*' Only a moment! Til sell," I said, 

" Only a moment to thee. " 



112 THE LURLEL 

Bartered I then with the Lurlei gay 

Only a moment of time, 
Selling- the flowers of the valley gray, 

Buying the mountain-top's rime. 

Only a moment ! The Lurlei sm'iled ; 

"Sell me thy birth-right," she saith. 
Oh, and I sold it, innocent child, 

Buying the pottage of death ! 

" 'Tis but a moment: thy honor, my dear." 

She layeth her hand on my head. 
I cannot choose but heed as I hear ; 

She giveth me lust in its stead. 

" Give me, I pray thee, thy will for a time, 

I shall reward thee right well." 
She beckons me whither the cloud-peaks climb, 

She hath me under her spell. 

' ' Rosy thy cheek with the bloom of health. 

Fair is thy long brown hair ; 
Here I give premature age for thy wealth. 

Here the pure snows thou must wear." 

^' Firm is thy tread with the boldness of youth." 

She holdeth my will at command ; 
She bendeth my form in age without ruth, 

Placeth a staff in my hand. 

*' Farewell, for thy moment has lengthened to years; 

I kiss thee a withering curse : 
Thou hast bought with thy soul-wealth a valley of 
tears. 

Tears of eternal remorse." 



THE LURLEI. 113 



''' Give me, I pray thee, my Lurlei lone. 

Something- to quiet my soul." 
Conscience doth slide from my heart like a stone, 

Clouds of remorse from me roll. 

" Purity hath not a place in the heart 

Reft of all conscience," Lurlei: 
Leg-ions of Pleasures around me upstart, 

Licentiousness pointing the way. 

"' Prayer from the wicked availeth not, friend:" 

She placeth a curse in mine eye ; 
" Heaven nor Hell is thy destine or end: " 

She speareth my soul with the lie. 

'•' The sun shineth not; the moon and stars grope:" 

Night, sable-robed, doth upstart ; 
*' Love ruleth not, nor Pity, nor Hope:" 

Hissing-tongued Hate gnaws my heart. 

Only a moment I bartered with her, 

Only a moment of time. 
Selling the good, the true, and the pure. 

Buying the glitter of crime ! 

I sold her my soul for a moment of pleasure, 
That moment has lengthened to years : 

I sold her my soul for bliss without measure, 
I bought all Eternity's tears ! 

V Envoy. 
The Lurlei sits on the mountain's top, 

Combing her golden hair; 
Her voice is sirenic, and all must stop 

Who pass down the river there. 



9 



114 TO UGH M UTTON, PER HA PS. 



TOUGH MUTTON, PERHAPS. 

We are having atrocious tough ivetJicr^ 
(To hear the sJicep-tendcrs tell it) 

But they are responsible for it 
If that is the way they spell it. 



TO MISS 



Upon that radiant brow of thine 
May love and truth forever shine, 
Like stars that light the welkin dome 
And tint the billowy ocean's foam. 

Upon life's desert, wild and broad, 
Oh may'st thou walk that peaceful road 
Which leads us on to heaven above 
Where all is joy and peace and love. 

Around thy soul so pure and white 
May Heaven shed celestial light, 
Life's ocean wild to guide thee o'er. 
And waft thee to its golden shore. 

[Written in youth one July in a hay-field, on a piece of paper 
that had contained my dinner, with an axle-grease box for my 
table, while lazily reclining under the wagon in the shade of the 
willows.] 



SHUT YOUR EYES AND GO TO SLEEP. 115 
SHUT YOUR EYES AND GO TO SLEEP. 

A KYRIELLE. 

Dear, your heart is tired to-night, 

And the waning watches creep ; 
All too soon the morn will come, — 

Shut your eyes and go to sleep. 

While the stars in heaven dream 

And the angels vigils keep, 
Lay your head upon my arm. 

Shut your eyes and go to sleep. 

Yes, I know that fevered care 

Trembles on your troubled lip ; 
Dreams of love will heal the heart, — 

Shut your eyes and go to sleep. 

Let your heart forget to pain. 

And your eyes forget to weep; 
Dream of home, and hope, and love, 

Shut your eyes and go to sleep. 

Heavy drags the wounded hour 

Over Sorrow's restless deep. 
Heaving up the tide of tears, — 

Shut your eyes and go to sleep. 

Oh the heaving, stifling sigh 

Through the night its pain will keep 

For the pillow waking prest, — 
Shut your eyes and go to sleep. 

With a touch like woman's own. 
Touch of Love's own finger-tip, 



ii6 BROWNING. 

I will smooth your throbbing brow, — 
Shut your eyes and go to sleep. 

Gently I will soothe your heart 

And still your restless pulse's leap ; 

Lay your head upon my arm, 
Shut your eyes and go to sleep. 



BROWNING. 

(by w. a. back, farmer.) 

Browning may be a right smart of a poet, 

Some thinks him so ; 
But if he is he's not anxious to show it, 

'R else / don't know. 

Give me a singer of songs 'at sings 'em 

With lots of soul ; 
Whose tweedle-um-twangles whenever he twings 'em 
^ Jist fill you full. 

I caint endoor of a poet 'at dribbles 

His honey in straw. 
An' hate none the less the blame ijit that scribbles 

In styles all raw. 

Make your own poem an' label it " Browning": 

The sum an' gross; 
Tho' nothin's in his weedy rankness, — Stop frownin'! 

Take 'nother dose ! 

My advice, you say? — Let Browning go pipin' 

In an ivy leaf; 
Don't hold his sack like a fool a-snipin', 

This life's too brief. 



WORDS A ND THO UGHTS. 1 1 7 



MADRIGAL. 

Darling, here within this lyric, 

Free from other mortal sight, 
Free from aught but dearest day-dreams, 

Hidden in the song I write, 
Sits a happy, happy lover 

In a heaven of the bliss 
Born, in Love's deep-breathing silence, 

Of the rapturous sweet kiss. 
Silently he clasps his radiant 

Blooming bride with loving arms. 
Hears the sweet, bell-like alarums 
(Rung by Cupid and the angels) 

Of sweet Passion's inward storms 
As her arms, so soft, climb upwards 

And entwine themselves enwrapt, 
Round about his neck in rarest 

Angel-love e'er being kept. 
— Darling, if you know the dear girl 

That I think thus ever on, 
I can hope you'll find this poem 

Ever shrines you as my own. 



WORDS AND THOUGHTS. 

Words are vases 
Shaped to thought 

Culled in places 
Blossom-fraught ; 



II 8 REX FUG IT. 

Thoughts are laces 

Finely wrought 
From the graces 

Bloom has caught: — 

In sherds 

Our words 
We break as we do vases; 

In shreds 

The threads 
Of thought we tear as laces. 

REX FUGIT. 

''RexfHgit,— The king flees."— Thus read 
A dignified, tall Latin student. 
"Try 'has,'" the usually prudent 
Professor said. 

He rose with confidence and ease ; 

But the whole class roared with laughter 
When he read a moment after, 
' ' The king has fleas. ' ' 



THE SICKLE OF FLOWERS. 

The last sad rites of death performed, 
The sickle lies upon the grave ; 

The sickle made of blooming flowers 
That the ruthless reaper clave. 

Withered lie the flowers gathered, 
Rusts the sickle on the oround ; 



THIS TO UCH OF AN A NGEL S HAND. 119 

Dead the blossoms now decaying, — 
And the form within the mound ! 

Oh the flowers of the sickle 
And the blooms upon its blade 

Are decaying daily, daily — 
Sweetest flowers soonest fade ! 

Oh the sickle is death's emblem 

And the flowers on it, rust ! — 
Emblem of the end of mortals. 

Earth to earth, and dust to dust ! 

[Scribbled in about five minutes on the back of an old envelope 
while sitting by a new-made grave on which was a sickle of flowers.] 



THIS TOUCH OF AN ANGEL'S HAND. 

Happiness is the realization of longings, — 

Of hope and fond desire, — 
That enter the heart like angel-throngings 

Bearing celestial fire. 

Like the peace that follows a benediction 

Is the painless rest it gives, 
Lething forever the heart's affliction 

In the endless joy it leaves. 1 

'Tis the acme of life and the end of living, 

This touch of an angel's hand. 
And it falls on the heart like the holy shriving 

Of the Priest of the Better Land. 



I20 LIFE'S PHILOSOPHY. 

LIFE'S PHILOSOPHY. 

AN ALLEGORY. 

How builds this budding flower, my child? 

"It lies all wrapped in icy snows 
Until the Suns of Spring have smiled 

And kissed it, blushing, to a rose. 

* * * * * * * 

How doth the tree, fair youth, the tree? 

" Year by year it adds a round 
And reaches up by slow degree. 

Keeping firm foot on the ground." 

The vine, sweet maid, how doth the vine? 

'' By the tree's support it lifts its head 
And round the tree its arms doth twine : 

Thus the two in love are wed." 

The two, aged sire and dame, how they? 

" The tree protects the tender vine, 
The vine in turn binds firm the tree : 

The two are one in shade and shine. " 



What of the plant, O man, the plant? 

''Adream in life's fair sleep it lies 
Until the Autumn Suns aslant 

Shoot gleaming thwart the glowing skies ! ** 



JUST AS USUAL. 121 



JUST AS USUAL. 

The sun rose bright at morn, 

The sun sank sad at night ; 
The moon's faint golden horn 

Waxed fair with mellow light. 

All night around the fold 
The polar bears kept prowl ; 

Their shining eyes gleained cold 

And danced to the wind's mad howl. 

Clear blew the shepherd's horn, 
Fair flushed the eastern main ; 

The bears slunk back : 'twas morn, 
The sun arose again ! 

Sweet Love rose bright at Morn, 
Sad Love went down at Night ; 

Fair Hope's faint golden horn 
Waxed sweet with mellow light. 

All night around my mind 
My jealous fears kept prowl ; 

Cold blew the willing wind 
That chilled my very soul. 

Clear wound Dan Cupid's horn. 
As sweet as rapture's pain; 

My fears slunk back : 'twas morn, 
And Love arose again ! 



122 A DEFLORATION. 

A DEFLORATION. 

We do often think ourselves not worth. — AtioiiyDious. 

Cold is the night, and my heart is cold, 
Bleak as yon peak of the rookies old ; 
Chill like the hill 

At the mountain's foot, 
Still as the rill 

That lies frozen and mute. 

White is the mountain-top, gleaming with snow, 
Cov'ring the rocks and the mould below : 
So seems the snow 

That my heart doth enfold, 
Tho' down below 

Lie the rocks and the mould. 

Deep in the hill neath the binding cold 
Never yet found may be veins of gold. 
And of the sand 

And the quartz in my heart 
Hand has not panned, 
Maybe gold is a part. 

Oh 'neath the crystal and ice-bound stream 
Drifts every gleam of a gold-digger's dream ; 
So neath the floe 

Of my heart's frozen stream 
Slowly I know 

Drifts the gold of love's dream. 



I LOVE YOU. KATE. I23 

I LOVE YOU, KATE. 

Dreaming rapturously, 
Dearest Kate, 
Full elate 
I seek your side to-night. 
Long, weary hours I wait 
Each day. 
Each day, 
To see the glorious light 

Of your face, — 
To me, earth's rarest boon. 
That makes my night 
A summer's day. 
The summer's day 
A bright and vernal noon. 
The noon eternity. 
Oh, sitting beauteously 
Upon Love's throne aboon 
AVith sceptered sway 
O'er all my way, 
Still of my night 
Make one eternal sun 

To shine thro' space 
With life and love and light 
For aye 
And aye ; 
Nor longer bid me wait, 
But say me "yes " to-night; 
Because, by fate 
I love you, Kate! — 
Oh will you marry me ! 

[In the above, first rhymes with last, second with second from 
last, and so on.] 



124 THE DEAD MAN'S LIFE. 

THE DEAD MAN\S LIFE. 
( TJiat is^ practically dead. ) 

Day after day have I secretly prayed 
From the morn thro' noon till night 

That my life might discover some port in the west 
Like the haven of sweet heaven's Light. 

Eve after eve as the sun has gone down, 
With my eyes still turned to the west 

I have prayed to the irised Pacific profound 
For even its restful unrest. 

Night after night in my bed full awake 
I have dreamed myself weeping alone 

In a silence as deep as the stars of the night 
O'er a corse that I knew was my own. 

Morn after morn have I risen from bed 
With the fear and the hope of its truth, 

Only to find that the death of the Dead 
Is bought at the dream-god's booth. 

PITY THE POOR. 

I pity the poor for I myself am poor, 
. Though I wear starched cuffs and collars ; 
But the brainless poor in rags I pity far more. 
For they've neither sense nor dollars. 

I pity as much the hare-brained spendthrift wretch 

With a wealth of only money ; 
The " sassiety " dude likewise whose droning speech 

Smacks only of bumble-bee honey. 



L IFK S LOST SKIFF. 1 2 5 

I pity all those at whom Poverty throws her dart 
As they joust thro' the world with each other; 

But I pity the most of all the bankrupt heart 
With no love for a human brother. 



LIFE'S LOST SKIFF. 

WRITTEN ON LAKE MICHIGAN. 

Prelude. 
Green as emerald is Michgan ; 

And the waves, 
Like ghosts from hungry graves, 
Are tossing up my infant boat amain, 
And kissing wild 
The orphan ocean-child, 

The rarest that has ever been. 
The fairest that was ever seen. 

Morning. 
Up drives the great red sun aslant. 

The sea-gulls flap, and scream, and fly ; 
A score of sails the sun's rays paint 

Upon the burning western sky. 

Noon. 

How silently and slow they steer ! 

Are the waves as wild out there the day. 
And do the ships careen and veer 

As she that drives so fast away? 

Night. 
Dim shadows haunt the eastern steep. 
The sun creeps up the glooming tower; 



12 6 A CLOSE A TTA CHMENT. 

The sea-birds scream in winged sleep, 
The ghostly billows wail the hour ! 

Finale. 
Green as emerald is Michigan ; 

And the waves, 
Like ghosts in yawning graves, 
Are tossing o'er my infant boat again. 
Embracing wild 
The orphan ocean-child, 

The rarest that has ever been, 
The fairest that was ever seen ! 

A CLOSE ATTACHMENT. 

STRANGE STORY OF AMOS QUITO. 

k 

I have swept the airy heavens, 

I have skimmed the rivers o'er; 
I have slept upon the cloud-wing, 

I have entered heaven's door. 
But in my peregrinations 

Thro' this world of ups and downs. 
None have loved and none have sought me, 

None have offered aught but frowns. 

I have drunk the sweetest rain-drop 

On its heaven-inission sent"; 
I have danced upon the rainbow 

Where its colors fairest blent. 
I have laughed and skipped and frolicked, 

I have hummed my sweetest songs ; 
But I've never found the attachment 

That I think to me belongs. 



A CLOSE A TTA CHMENT. 1 27 

Ah, the world's appreciation 

Of my endless wealth and worth 
Is a desiccated desert, 

Is a sterile, arid dearth ! 
I'm the fairest of my fellows. 

And the most affectionate ; 
Hence the world's indifference to me 

On my mighty soul doth grate. 

I have kissed the blushing maiden, 

I have lullabied to babies ; 
I have feasted on the features 

Of a million lords and ladies. 
'Tis the lover's same old story — 

Disappointment everywhere ! 
None have loved — except to hate me, 

None have hated — save to spare ! 

Now at length my weary pinions. 

Out of reach of mortal kind. 
Rest from all men's scorns and buffets. 

And their first attachment find. 
And I cannot choose but stay here 

Where I'll always stay to hum. 
For I've reached life's golden acme, — 

I am stuck on chewing gum ! 

I am sleepy now, and happy, 

Let profane hands not disturb ; 
Let none mar my wildest dreamings. 

Nor ecstatic tumblings curb. 



1 2 8 THE DEMON! A C. 

Since 'twas not in life permitted 

That his blood I s-i-p, 
May mankind write : 



AMOS QUITO ! 
LET HIM EVER 
. R.-I.-P. 



THE DEMONIAC. 

Great God ! and must I, must I live, 

And can I never die, 
I whom the press of sorrow's hand 

Hurled headlong from the sky? 

How long, O Lord, must I thus wait, 
How long in blasting blight, 

Each idle day imploring death, 
And dreaming death each night? 

Each hour I fill some heart with woe. 
And blast some heart with mine ! 

To me 'tis living death to know 
My heart stills poisoned wine ! 

Ten million, million deaths I live 
Each wasting, poisoned hour ; 

For, whom I love my presence damns- 
I blight each blooming flower. 

Oh that the grinning skeleton 
This faithless flesh doth hold 

Might lay its lying mantle off 
To dream on downs of mould ! 



THE WEATHER FIEND. 129 

The leaf must fade, the sun must set, 

The sweetest day must die ; 
But Death, Decay, and Woe must live, — 

And so, and so must I ! 

Oh days to me are lengthened years, 

The years like ages creep ; 
I've tossed ten million centuries 

On life's tinfathomed deep ! 

I've seen the crawling sea- weed rot 

In slime upon that sea. 
And slimy things find birth therein 

To live in death, like me. 

I find no peace, I know no rest, 

My very self I fly ; — 
Unfit to love, unfit to live. 

And far less fit to die ! 

THE WEATHER FIEND. 

Of the weather 

Ask us whether 
We enjoy it thus and thus ; 

If it suits us. 

What it boots us. 
If it matters much to us. 

When it's raining. 

Come complaining 
That "it's muddy out today." 

It will please us 

And will ease us 
Of the thing we'd like to say. 
10 



I30 THE WEATHER FIEND. 

When a blizzard 

Like a lizard 
Wriggles up and down your spine, 

Dont be fool-like, 

Just keep cool, like 
All green "pickles" on the vine. 

If it's cold out, 
Don't be sold out 

When yoti tell somebody so 
If he says he 
' S melting as he 

Gently mops his frigid brow. 

If it's snowing, 

With a knowing 
Wink within your " weather eye " 

It is sound to 

Say, "We're bound to 
Have some sleighing by and by." 

If we si liver 
When your clever 

Tongue remarks " ifs hot as '//^, " 
It's because of 
Those old saivs of 

Weather that you always file. 

We can stand it — 

Yes, demand it. 
That you be a weather bore. 

For wx never 

Heard such clever 
Originality before. 



THE DEA TH-HO WL. 1 3 1 



WHO KNOWS! 

Ah me I— 
O'er the wide 
Deep I glide 

Where flows 
For me 
Either waters 'mid the plashes 

Of the lacing star-light lashes, 
Or a sea 'mid lightning gashes 

With their booming cannon-crashes — 
Who knows ! 
Ah me! 

In the wide 
River's tide 
Still flows 
For me 
Either waters bearing bubbles 

From the waves that pelt the pebbles, 
Or a muddy sea of troubles 
With its melancholy trebles — 
Who knows ! 
Ah me, 

Ah me! 



THE DEATH-HOWL. 

I shall die to-night, dear mother, I have heard the long 

death-howl, 
That long plaintive, mournful cry like the wail of some 

lost soul. 



1 3 2 THE DEA TH-HO WE 

And it sounded like a spirit crying through a distant 

storm, 
^loaning that another mortal should put on the brutish 

form ! — 

Wailing that a brother-spirit should exchange its form 

for that 
Of the baying hound, or worse, of the death-rhymed 

Irish rat. 

But my mother, darling mother ! old Pythagoras was 

wrong. 
For the death-howl dies away, and I hear the angel- 



— Yet, I've heard that death-howl, mother, and I know 

I'll die to-night — 
And the room is filling, filling with a strange, unearthly 

light ! 

Oh that glorious sight out yonder in the vast eternity 
Where the light and song af e leading — come ! oh come 
and go with me ! 

Dearest mother, mother, mother! whata joyous, joyous 

sight ! 
Each glad soul as life has dreamed it clad in purest 

angel-white ! 

The death-howl's died away, dear mother, — and I'm 

dying now to-night ! — 
Good-night mother, earth's dear angel, once more 

mother, sweet good-night ! 



ON PLUCKING A CROCUS. 133 



ON PLUCKING A CROCUS. 

Sweet Crocus ! harbinger of spring, 

Awake, with others sleeping. 
How have I wrecked thy new-born life 

And set thy parent weeping ! 

See ! sad her weeping eyes upturning, 

Adrip with love for thee, 
And arms outstretched implore thy slayer 

That thou'lt returned be. 

Alas ! in vain her tears must flow, 

Her palms implore the youth 
Who pluckM thee from out her heart 

And set in his such ruth. 

I cannot give thee back — I would 
I might! I'd send thee thither; 

It grieveth me to see her weep, 
To know that thou shalt wither. 

My heart ne'er tho't when thee I plucked, 
For thou not yet hadst won it. 

How much I took, how little gave — 
I would I had not done it. 

Lift up thy drooping head again — 
I would the word would do it ! — 

Make me not wxep for plucking thee ; 
Thou know'st how much I rue it. 

Thy pure and purple-tinted petals. 
Thy open lily-lips, 



1 34 GRA VITY—LIFE. 

Thy olden-golden anthered stamens 
Thy saffron pistil-tips ! — 

Would I could here embalm them all 

And wrap in verses meet 
So that thou'dst be, when years should roll, 

To others just as sweet ! 

Envoy. 
'Tis thus, O soul-inspired poet, 

The world shall greet thy song — 
Shall pluck it from thy throbbing soul 

To die amidst the throng. 

And thus, O plucker of the crocus. 
Shall Death come unto thee — 

Shall pluck thee from thy mother's heart, 
Shall thy embalmer be. 

So may'st thou live and do and be 

That Death, with riches rife. 
Shall be thy welcome harbinger, — 

The crocus of thy life. 



GRAVITY— LIFE ! 

(After Browning — several miles after.) 

Gravity — what? 

Attraction we call it, 
Yet mind cannot thrall it — 
Where is it not? 
Life of world-stuff — truly it is! 
— Life then of man? — His, and not his! 



HOT?— WELL. RATHER! I35 

'Tis of all matter ; thus 'tis of man ; 
'Tis of all space, and spans the world's span. 
Matter, man! Gravity, life! 
— Each fits to each ; with the other at strife. 
Life? It is — what? 
Who can explain it? 
Mind cannot chain it — 
God ! how 'tis wrought ! 



DEATH— LIFE. 

Sadly o'er the moor I fare, 
Lonely, lonely all the day ; 

Life nor leaf nor song is there ; 
Barren, barren all the w^ay. 

Sun and spring and hope are bright, 
Sweetly, sweetly dreaming there ; 

Life will wake with love and light. 
Joyous, joyous everywhere. 



HOT ?— WELL, RATHER ! 

The sun come peekin' crost the hills 
With round, red, shinin', smilin' face 

That broadened to a grin from ear 
To ear, — a most perdigeous space! 

Then he showed his teeth an' slapped his sides 
An' laughed an' shook with all his might 

To think how 'tarnal hot 't'ould be 
Fer us a-sittin' still 'fore night. 



136 HOT?— WELL, RATHER! 

'Twas "purtywarm this mornin' " 'fore 
'Twas eight o'clock ; an' then 'twas found 

''Quite warm"; then "hot", an' " awful hot " 
Before the minute-hand's tenth round. 

At twelve 'twas " b'ilin' hot", and yet 
No stop; 'twas " meltin' hot" at two; 

All said, "I'm dyin' with the heat! "— 
" The hottest day I ever knew! " 

Why, stalks of corn that mornin' growed 

Full two foot — ears pupo'tional ; 
An' then, 'fore night, 'twas dry an' ripe 

Like when you shuck it in the fall. 

The steeples on the churches all 

Was drawed to more'n three times their height, 
An' lightnin'-rods was stretched to wire 

That melted off like wax 'fore nieht. 



'to' 



The weather-boardin' all warped off 
An' shingles rolled in little tubes ; 

Big saw-logs doubled up in bows. 
An' water crystallized in cubes. 

The hoops of barrels tumbled off 
An' wagon-tires follered suit ; 

The forests growed so awful fast 
They all was pulled up by the root. 

Men melted in the harvest-field 

An' fried to cracklin's light as chaff, 

A-sizzlin' in a way that made 

Old Nickie chuck hisse'f an' laug-h ! 



A YEAR AGO. 137 

In one big city, folks all died 

But Smith (Sid. Smith). This chap took off 
His flesh an' lolled 'round in his bones 

(But it killed him ; — caught cold, and died of a cough). 

I can't begin to tell how hot 

It was — it can't be even guessed. 
It's still so all-infernal hot 

I can't begin to try to rest. 



A YEi\R AGO. 

A year ago 
I held the fondest hopes 

That ever touched the fondest heart, 
Nor dreamed that I should ever part 
From all that fancy opes, 
A year ago. 

A year ago ! — 
Sweet mem'ry's golden chime ! — 
A flower bloomed beneath my sill 
And by its soft, enchanting smell 
I lost all count of time 

A year ago. 

A year ago 
I slept a bed of peace 

Beneath the stars of summer skies 
While dreams like dews o'erdropt my eyes 
That this should never cease — 
A year ago ! 



138 THE SWEETEST OF ALL. 

A year ago 
My morning-g-lory vine, 

Soft whispering with the wings of bees, 
Foretold that whisperings like these 
Should endlessly be mine — 
A year ago ! 

A year ago 
The sun light-kissed the moon. 
Glad skies upon the sweet lake hung. 
And mingled Life and Love and Song 
Rode near their highest noon — 
A year ago. 

A year ago ! — 
Then, then each sister vine 

Upon a brother sweetly leaned : 
Thus we, Dear Heart, ourselves demeaned 
When Love had made you mine 
A year ago. 

A year ago 
' Twas Love from sun to sun : 
To-day I fold you to my heart 
And know that nought but death can part 
The love and life begun 
A year ago. 

THE SWEETEST OF ALL. 

There are tears of pity and tears of woe, 

And tears half of rapture and pain will fall ; 

And tears for excess of joy must flow. 

But the tears of love are the sweetest of all. 



THE SWEETEST OF ALE 139 

There's the sorrow of husband, the sorrow of wife, 

And the sorrow that knows no recall ; 
The sorrow of death and the sorrow of life, 

But the sorrow of love is the sweetest of all. 

Oh the sighs of remorse and the sighs of pain 
And the sighs of hope that the heart enthrall 

May be sweet to the soul and balm to the brain, 
But the sighs of love are the sweetest of all. 

There's the laugh of the farm-boy, free and wild, 
The laugh in the boisterous banqueting hall ; 

The laugh of the sage, the laugh of the child, 
But the laugh of love is the sweetest of all. 

There are smiles of contentment and smiles of cheer 

And smiles that gladden wherever they fall ; 
There are smiles that banish the thoughts of fear, 
But the smiles of love are the sweetest of all. 

There's the kiss sweet-blown from the finger tips. 
The kiss of good-bye when the tear-drops fall; 

There's the kiss of a cherishing mother's lips. 
But the kiss of love is the sweetest of all. 

There are songs that sing in a minor key, 
And songs that the listening heart appall ; 

There are songs that vsing like the constant sea. 
But the songs of love are the sweetest of all. 



1 40 THE LO VER ' S CO MP LA INT. 

THE LOVER'S COMPLAINT. 

Sorrows live and pleasures dee, 
Willy-willy-waly weep my woe ! 

And ril wear the willow-tree, 

Willow-willow weeping, sweeping low. 

For I loved a bonnie lass, 

Willy-willy-waly weep my woe ! 

Bonnie, bonnie Love, alas! 

Willow- willow, whither did she go? 

Here upon this willow-tree, 
Willy-willy-waly weep my woe ! 

I will hang my harp, and dee. 

Willow- willow, will she ever know? 

On my heart I'll place my hand 
Willy-willy-waly wailing so ! 

On my head a green garland. 

Willow-willow weeping sleeping so ! 



Then farewell, my bride and breath, 

Willy-will}' -waly, waly-oh ! 
vStill I love you, tho' my death, 

AVillow-willow wailing — will she know ! 

[The willow-tree is emblematical of death, or forsaken love — 
which, to the lover, is, of course, all the same thing. The custom 
of a disappointed lover's hanging his harp on a willow-tree and 
going off to the wars in utter desperation — hoping to get killed, 
perhaps, and thus be revenged on his false sweetheart \>y making 
her sorry! — ; also the custom of wearing a green-willow garland 
about the hat, and leaning up against the tree (they had no fences) 
to die, somewhat a la Job's turkey, I presume, as they used to do 
before quicker, modern, new-fangled methods of a lover's getting 



BUZZ. 141 

out of the world came in ; and the custom of doing many other 
things that were done by the young ancient lovers, is a custom 
that is dead. The preceding is the wail of one of these youthful 
old dolorous fellows, in the English-Ballad style of his day.] 



BUZZ. 

' ' Buzz, I3UZZ, buzz ! " 
In my ear the sound is drumming", 
On my heart-chords ever strumming, 

"Buzz, buzz, buzz!" 

Whence the sound, my soul's confusion? 
"Buzz, buzz, buzz!" 
Comes the sound from days of childhood 
Thronging echoes thro' the wildwood 
"Buzz, buzz, buzz!" 
Youth has planted in profusion. 

Thro' the tangles wildly growing 
"Buzz, buzz, buzz!" 
Crieth Hope, my lost companion. 
Left behind in Wild-oats Cailon, 
"Buzz, buzz, buzz! " 
^Vith the sap of manhood flowing. 

"Buzz, buzz, buzz!" 
Aged now I listen gladly 
To the ochoes that so sadly 

"Buzz, buzz, buzz!" 



142 ^A SHIXG TON. 



WASHINGTON. 

22 Feb. 

Great Washington ! Dear father of the land 
Our glorious Lincoln died to save I thou who 
Wast mightiest of men to beat the foe 
In war ; admired of every nation and 
Of every hearth, yet more because thy hand 
Was mightiest in peace ; exalted thro' 
The years to more than Jove's own heights of blue, 
Still ruling us from yon far golden strand I — 
For thee this day is made the nation's day; 
For thee the red of dawn, the white of morn, 
And spangled blue of night are all imfurled, 
Are all the emblems of our love for thee. 
To liberty and home God's greatest boon, 
O noblest, grandest, best of all the world ! 



FREEDOM'S BATTLE SONG. 

CANTUS FILIIS VETERANORUM. 

We think the thoughts our fathers thought. 

And sing the same old songs ; 
We fight the battles they have fought, 

And right the same old wrongs. 

CHORUS. 

Hurrah! hurrah! oh may its colors wave, 
Hurrah ! hurrah ! the banner of the free. 

O'er thee for aye, thou Land our fathers gave, 
O Land my home, sweet Land of Liberty. 



'MONG THE MOUNTAINS OF THE SOUL. 143 

We breath, the air our fathers breathed, 

Inspiring freedom still ; 
Unsheathe the sword that they unsheathed, 

And strike with dauntless will. 

— Chorus. 

Behold the same old sun above. 

The same old spang-led dome 

Forever shining out in love 

On Freedom's happy home. 

— CJioriis. 

We'll guard the home our fathers won 

And fight the latest foe ; 
We'll stand by every loyal gun 

Where Freedom's streamers flow. 

— CJwriis. 

Beneath the stripes of red and white 

And starry spangled blue. 
Protected by the God of Right 

We'll fight the battle through. 

CJl07'llS. 

We'll bid defiance to the world 

And make the welkin ring, 
With Freedom's dauntless flag unfurled 

And God above, our King. 

— Clioriis. 

'MONG THE MOUNTAINS OF THE SOUL. 
My grief lies all within. — Shaks^ere, Rich. II. 

Tell me not that tears are sorrow, 
Tell me not that grief must flow 

Like sad drops of rain descending, 
Or like streams in valleys low. 



144 HAL A-HUNTIN\ 

Mute and sweet as Death's own slumber, 
In the heart that's dumb with grief 

There is eloquence, and mournful. 
That doth shame all tear-relief. 

From the heart of silent sorrow, 
Clouds of woe can never rise, 

And dissolve themselves with raining 
To congeal in weeping eyes. 

Oh, the heart may bleed with mourning. 
And the soul may burst with grief ; 

Nought of weeping nor of moaning. 
Nought of tears can give relief. 

Deep among the soul's great mountains. 
Silent as the night doth come, 

Clouds of grief may soft be raining, 
vShrouding every hill in gloom. 

Oh, along the channeled valleys, 
Sad as Charon's river's roll, 

Streams of grief may deep be flowing 
'Mong the mountains of the soul. 

HAL A-HUNTIN'. 

Onct we went a-huntin', 

Pa'n' me, we did, 
'N' / went 'long an' tookt ol' 

Rover. — 'N' we did 
Have ist the mostest fun I — 
'N' Pa, w'y he tookt a gun. 



HAL A-HUNTIN\ 145 



Rove ist skecrt the rabbits 

Outen the grass, 
'N'en Pa he shooted at 'em 

When they runned pas'. 
My landy ! how they run ! 
Wushed Pd a had a ofun ! 



& 



Pa ist shooted at 'em, 

Hard^ but couldn't 
Kill 'em, 'cause when Jic'd shoot, 

The gun — tc'j' — wouldn't. 
'N'en Pa said 'twan't no fun 
A-huntin' wif sich a gun. 

My ! but didn't them rabbits 

Go a scootin' ! — 
'N' Rover after'm, ist a- 

Skallyhootin' ! 
'N' Pa said, "see what he done" 
(When he comed home) ^^ ivif Jiis gun! " 

'N'en the hired man ist 

Laft an' shook'n' 
When he'd skun 'em all, he 

Said, a-lookin' 
Solemn-like (in fun), 
' ' What a dog- gone gun. " 

'N'en when Ma she fried 'em 

'N' we was a-eatin' 
Of 'em up. Ma said 'at 

It was beatin' 
How that dog could run ! — 
Guess he's the goodest gun ! 
II 



146 WRITE FROM THE HEART. 

'N'en Pa's face got red, an' 

He scowled at me 
Awful, 'n' said, "You little 

Young rascal, see 
Here ! what 'd you go'n' haft 
To tell for? " 'N'en they laft! 

Wusht Pa'd take me wif him 

Huntin' again; 
But he says 'at I'm too 

Awful green — 
Rabbits might eat me! I 
Guess not! Wonder why? 



WRITE FROM THE HEART. 

Write from the heart straight outwards 
When divinely the feelings glow, 

Write for the soul's satisfaction, 

And you'll fashion the best outward show 

Write as the June rose blossoms, 
Always straight from the inside out 

Slowly unfolding its petals 

From the ports of its Power's redoubt. 

Then from the sweet breathing petals, 
That I swear seem almost human to me, 

Perfumes rush out thro' the portals 
In the drunkenest ecstacy. 

So let your heart in your poem 
Breathe its song like a living rose. 



OUR ALMA MATER. 147 

vSweet with its deepest-drawn perfumes 
As from soul unto soul it sfoes. 

Write from the heart straight outwards, 
Caring- not for the glitter and show ; — 

Write as the showers from heaven, 
Nor forget how the sweet roses blow. 



WHITHER? 

Whither this Highway, Child? 

"To the Field of Flowers,— to the Flowers wild." 

Whither this Highway, Youth? 

"Through the Fields of Love to the home of Ruth." 

Whither this Highway, Man? 

"Through the realms of Fame into Class and Clan." 

Whither this Highway, Sire ? 

"To the silent Tomb with its marble spire! " 

Whither, oh whither. Tomb? — 

But voiceless it points to the azure dome. 



OUR ALMA MATER. 

Dear Alma Mater ! beloved thro' all the west ! 

Thou who hast taught our infant feet the way 

Of light and truth ! thou who hast been our stay 
And prop thro' all our weakness ! thou whose zest 
In strength'ning us would never let thee rest, 

E'en in thy trials as in prosperity! 

'Tis ours to-day in thy adversity 



148 FATHER TIME. 

To aid thee, speed thee thro' this fiery test. 
And as thou, like the Phoenix, bird of old, 
Comest from forth thy ruined home, for aye 
In broader fields to live and grow, from west 
To east the lengthened shout is roll'd, 

" 'Tis ours, by thee made strong, to strengthen thee, 
To us. of all the world the dearest, best!" 



FATHER TIME. 

I am the father of the river. 

Of the sea, and of the mountain ; 

Of the sunlight that doth quiver 
In the rainbow of the fountain. 

I have raised up men and nations, 
I have builded homes and cities ; 

I have given all their stations. 

Him who scorns and him who pities. 

I have forged the tears and sorrows 
Of a Russia, broken-hearted. 

Into chains of sad to-morrows 

That but death of kings has parted. 

I have woven joy and laughter. 

Fairest of life's flowers. 
Into garlands that hereafter 

Shall be worn in Eden's bowers. 

Oh the sorrows and the pleasures 
Of the world in faultless rhyme 

Blend the music of their measures 
With the step of Father Time. 



THUS LIFE'S TALE. 149 

THUS LIFE'S TALE. 

I. 

Away out yonder on the great horizon 

Sail, sail away; 
Sail, my soul, w^th thy breaking- burthen, 

Sail, sail, nor stay. 

IL 

Away in the westward where the sun is dipping 

Gold, gold from the sea. 
Gold of a glorious El Dorado — 

Sail, sail to-day. 

in. 

See the straight horizon by the great sun hollowed: 

Sail swift that way. 
Sail ! 'tis the portal the sun has opened. 

Sail, sail nor stay. 

IV. 

The sun is flashing thro' the broad portcullis: 

See, see my sail ! 
See the shroud thro' the gate disappearing! — 

Thus, thus life's tale! 

Finale. 
The sea is tolling and the mer-folk weeping: 

Sailed, sailed away; 
Sailed the soul with its life-laded burthen, 

Mourned, mourned the clay. 



I50 PART OF THE NEW ENGLAND LAMENT. 
PART OF THE NEW ENGLAND LAMENT. 

ON THE KILLING OF SITTING BULL, 189I. 

Sitting Bull and the other Sioux 

Lived in the land where the blizzards blioux, 

And they grioux, and they grioux, and they grioux ! — 
Till one day they shot him thrioux 
And kicked up an awful huUabalioux, — 

Bioux-hioux, bioux-hioux, bioux-hioux! 

— TcrJnvytt-in-tJie- Twinkle D'Bioux. 

ON KINGSLEY'S "FAREWELL." 

Let's climb the steeps, let's drink of Kingsley's foun- 
tain; 
Let's stand with him above the rabbled throng 
LTpon the sun-tipped top of his grand mountain 

Of moral song. 

Oh listen to the music of the river 

Along the channeled valleys of his soul 
As its threnode-throbbing echoes on us ever 

Their Farewell roll: — 

^ ' Be good, sweet maid, and let who can be clever ; 
Do lovely things, not dream them, all day long. 
And so make life, and death, and that vast forever 

One grand, sweet song." 



THE TRANSFORMATION. 151 

THE TRANSFORMATION. 

A PSYCHOLOGICAL MYSTERY. 

I am not superstitious, not in the least. But that cer- 
tain things which we cannot explain by any natural 
method may happen in the lives of us all, there is no 
longer a shadow of a doubt in my own mind. 

I had gone to bed as usual and had been sleeping 
soundly one night, with only the faint glimmer of a 
sweet vision now and then flitting through my mind, 
when suddenly I was startled from my sleep into a 
lively consciousness of a strange presence, and weird, 
mournful sounds, as of a dirge, in my room. Moreover, 
there was a peculiar sensation in my head, a sensation 
that I have never before or since felt, a kind of pain, 
yet not a pain ; for in some indefinable way it was mys- 
teriously mingled with a peculiar, almost transport- 
ing rapture that seemed to permeate my whole being. 
Indeed, the pain, starting immediately between my 
brows and running back to my crown, seemed born of 
this pleasurable sensation, which had no local residence 
but was in every nerve and fibre, both together producing 
that indescribable exhilarating feeling that I imagine the 
truly happy in the next world possess. But, you say, 
surely the angels have no pain. I hope not ; but this I 
have learned, that every pleasure of earth has its pain. 
And as I cannot say that this sensation was altogether 
that of a mortal, I cannot say from experience that there 
is a pleasure without a pain. 

For a moment after awaking, I could not tell where 
I was or what was going on. But my senses being 
quickly roused to their fullest keenness, I soon saw I 



152 THE TRANSFORMATION. 

was in my own room. But the matter of the presence 
and the weird sound was not so easily solved. 

I lay quietly for a time, trying to persuade myself 
that I had been dreaming and that my waking fancy 
was merely the hallucination of the dream that had not 
yet passed away. Have you never done the like? How- 
ever, I soon realized that the presence and the sound, 
whoever or whatever they were, were not mere fancy. 
Still I tried to shake off the feeling that some one had 
entered my room ; for, as is my custom, I had securely 
barred the front door, also my bed-room door, before 
retiring. Besides, no one could possibly have climbed 
in at my windows of the second story without iny know- 
ing it ; for when I am so nervous as I was this night, 
the slightest sound will waken me. I turned over and 
looked out of the window. The moon was still shining, 
and the trees swayed with a soft murmur in answer to 
the light breeze that wantoned among the virgin May 
leaves just lately from the bud. There were the houses, 
the barns, the road, everything, in fact, just as it really 
was, and I knew I could not possibly be asleep. 

Still, that consciousness of a presence in my room, 
stronger and stronger grown until it had reached con- 
viction, I could not rid myself of ; nor could I shut my 
ears to the mournful sounds that came from somewhere 
— everywhere, it seemed. 

Suddenly — most wonderful to tell ! — I saw the very 
faintest streak of light creep up the farther wall of my 
room. 

All that I have related did not, perhaps, occupy more 
than a full minute, though I must confess it seemed 
much longer. 



THE TRANSFORMATION. i53 

The thread of light, different from all lights I have ever 
before seen, moved toward the ceiling rapidly, and held 
me in breathless attention. What could it be ! — A ray 
of the moon through a slit in the curtain that was gently 
moved by the breeze blowing through the window? 
Wait! It reached the ceiling. Then with such a deli- 
cate light that it was almost imperceptible, it crept along 
the ceiling diagonally toward me. When it got imme- 
diately above my head, it stopped. What in the world 
could it be ! 

I lay almost breathless, wondering. Wouldn't you, 
my friend, if you should see such a thing in your room? 
You may not know what you would do in such case. 
Possibly you say you would investigate at once. So, 
too, had I said many a time, — I would investigate what- 
ever was strange, doubtful, or inexplicable. But if 
your hands would not move, if your feet lay motionless, 
and if your whole being were thrilled with a thralling 
rapture and pain all at once, you would probably do 
just as I did, — lie there fascinated. 

vSuddenly, like a flash, something struck me on the 
forehead, and instantly I sat bolt upright in bed. As I 
rose, whatever it was that struck me bounded off on the 
bed, then down on the floor, that mysterious filmy 
thread of light following it, and at the same time cling- 
ing to my forehead. I put my hand up to brush it 
away. But when I touched it (if I really did touch it, 
which I doubt, for my hand seemed suddenly arrested), 
my whole body trembled as if shaken by some super- 
natural power. It was something more than a light, — 
it was a film, a thread ; and at my touch upon it, that 
sensation of mingled pain and rapture was almost be- 



154 THE TRANSFORMATION. 

yond my power to survive. I let my hand drop from 
it, and unable to resist doing what I did, I rose from my 
bed and started to follow up that thread of light and 
film ; for somehow it seemed attached to my brain, and 
I involuntarily obeyed the will of whoever or whatever 
it was that controlled it. Though fully conscious of all 
I was doing, I could not resist. Great beads of sweat 
stood on my body, caused partly, I suppose, by extreme 
nervous excitement and partly by this influence upon me. 

I would have hastened from the room, screamed for 
help, or cried "murder ! " but it was impossible. Even 
the rapidity of my steps was under control, and I marched 
slowly, deliberately, and solemnly, as to martial music 
of the dead. 

I passed from my sleeping-room to my study, obedi- 
ent to the slightest inclination of the supernatural power 
that controlled the thread by which I was led. 

When I reached my study-chair at my desk, I obedi- 
ently sat down. Then for the first time I beheld the 
object that was exerting this power over me. I have 
seen many an object before and since very similar to it, 
but never at any time another just like it. 

As I sat in my chair, my eyes riveted on the thread of 
light, suddenly that object appeared at the other end of 
the thread on a pile of blank writing paper that lay on 
my desk, and eyed me intently. I was horrified, and if 
possible, less capable of resisting than before. What I 
beheld, and what was exerting this supernatural influ- 
ence over me was nothing more nor less than a horrible, 
ugly spider! — a supernatural spider, most certainly; 
different, I tell you, from any I have ever before or 
since seen. 



THE TRANSFORMATION. i55 

As I sat watching the spider, it began moving up 
and down, back and forth, and round and round on the 
paper in the most irregular motions imaginable. Being 
rather large and clumsy-looking, his movements, so very 
irregular though really not ungraceful, made the spider 
at first look awkward. 

Wonder upon wonder ! As the spider began moving, 
another one, somewhat smaller than the first, and more 
dimly seen, with even a finer thread of light (attached, 
too, to the first spider's thread), made its appearance 
on another pile of paper. Could it be that a whole 
army of spiders had convened to work my destruction, 
and that these two were only the picket-guards? Yet it 
did seem that this one was not present, but only the 
vision of a spider, existing somewhere in reality, but 
present only to my mind. This, too, I am persuaded 
to believe, was really the ease. But the other one, the 
larger one, I swear was there moving on iny paper ; and 
I still have the paper in my possession as proof. As 
this one began to move, the visionary one also began to 
move ; as if each, unconscious of the acts of the other, 
was nevertheless controlled by the action of the other, 
and the influence upon each other was mutual. As they 
both moved, I noticed they left their shining, filmy 
thread upon the paper. But I was so intent upon every 
motion that I paid no attention to the web left behind, 
imtil each spider, having almost reached the right-hand 
side of the paper, cut his thread, went to the left, and 
began again to go through similar motions. 

What could be the meaning of this mystic spider- 
dance? vSuch, indeed, it now seemed to be; for my 
first impression of irregularity and clumsiness had now 



156 THE TRANSFORMATION. 

worn away, and their motions now seemed to be in per- 
fect unison, and measured with the grace and harmony 
of rhythm. The room was but dimly lighted by the 
rays of moon that slipped in under the curtains, yet I 
could see the spiders and their work plainly. I glanced 
at the glowing web the first spider had left, and — won- 
derful to relate ! — as true as the sun shines above us, 
there at the top of^ the page in writing that, had it been 
in ink, I would have sworn was my own, the glowing 
web had been woven in and out so as to read, Happy 
Days of Yore! 

Could it be possible? — was I not dreaming? I looked 
and read and read and looked again and again. But 
there it was, plain as day, in a style of writing, too, I 
say, that I would have sworn was my own had it been 
in ink instead of woven in a glowing web. But why 
those words? Could there be something in my life, past 
or present, that those words were to taunt me about? 
My whole life's history trailed before my eyes, a galaxy 
of pleasant memories. No, nothing there that these 
words could make regretful. Could it then portend 
something of a dark future? God alone knows! 

Thus meditating, my eye caught the less distinct 
glow of the web of the other spider. Heavens I what 
next! There, as distinct as if written by the hand of 
my old chum, were the words, Memories of the Past. 
Here was a mystery growing deeper and deeper each 
moment. I would willingly have taken my oath, and 
will to this day, that the handwriting was that of my 
boyhood chum and present dear old friend. 

Happy Days of Yore, — Memories of the Past. How 
was I to solve the mystery of the weaving of these 



THE TRANSFORMATION. 157 

words and fathom their intended meaning? Both sug- 
gested to my mind a similar train of thought. But why 
this mysterious writing? 

As I sat thus meditating, I again became conscious 
of that weird sound of which I have previously spoken, 
but which (my mind being so preoccupied with what 
was before it) I had not again noticed until I fell into 
this meditation. 

It sounded like the sweet, sad blending of mournful 
voices singing, or chanting, rather, to the deep tones of 
a distant organ. I recalled myself and looked at the 
large spider, when I discovered that— mystery of mys- 
teries ! — the echo-like organ voice and solemn chanting 
music came from the spider alone as he moved across 
the paper, weaving his golden web into rhythmic words ! 
There, as the music went on, I read in illuminated char- 
acters of the weaving spider's web. — 

Oh those happy days of yore 
Will come back to me no more ! 
Ah no more, no more for aye ! — 
They have fled with time away, 

And my heart is sad and lone 
As I dream forevermore. 

With a heaving sigh and groan, 
Of those happy days of yore. 

Most wonderful! — wonderful not in the words so 
much, for they were simple, plain, and as they moved 
to the music, graceful withal, seeming to be words that 
might come from a sincere and true but untutored 
poetic heart; wonderful, therefore, rather, that they 
should be woven by a spider, and that, too, with a web 
^of light. 

As in eager wonder I leaned my ear closer, the vision 



158 THE TRANSFORMATION. 

of the second and more delicate spider, likewise weav- 
ing, passed before my eyes, and I caught the distant 
strains of a deeper, sadder, sweeter melody, with these 
words woven in the finer, more delicate thread of light. — 
Oh how sweet those days of boyhood, 

Oh how dear those happy hours 
When I rambled through the forests 

'Mong the birds and trees and flowers! 
Life lay smiling all before me, 
No regrets, no cares behind; 
All the earth seemed bright with beauty. 

Life was freedom unconfined. 
I rejoiced whene'er the sunlight 

Scattered wide its golden beams. 
Thinking not that I should ever 
Miss its light or prize its gleams. 

Still more wonderful and remarkable than anything 
before was the similarity of music as w^ell as of thought : 
more wonderful and inore remarkable because neither 
spider seemed conscious of the other's action or pres- 
ence. Indeed, as I have already said, only one really 
was present ; the other existing in another place, and 
only psychologically present to me. This latter fact, 
shown in all that follows, I tell you, is the most re- 
markable psychological problem I have ever met — ex- 
cept one ! — nor have I ever yet found sage or savant able 
to solve it. Many have tried it, wondered at it more 
and more as they got more and more into its depths and 
subtle intricacies, and finally in their weakness have 
given it up. Herbert vSpencer, McCosh, and other lesser 
philosophers cannot satisfy themselves upon it. 

My interest was now, if possible, even greater than 
before. Again I turned my attention to the present 
spider as in melody it wove. — 



THE TRANSFORMATION. 159 

Oh those days of sweetest thought ! 
Oh those days with rapture fraught ! 
Had I known when but a child 
What great blessings round me smiled, 

With a wild, exulting leap 
I'd have struck on wisdom's door; 

Piled up knowledge heap on heap 
In those happy days of yore. 

Both were weaving- rapidly, as if their very lives were 
an ephemeral inspiration, and they were thus weaving 
it away in illnminated letters, that at least that inspira- 
tion might live, though the very weaving- should cost 
both their Hves. So I hastened again to look, and to 
hsten to the other richer and deeper melody. 

Ah, those days are gone forever; 

Time has wafted them away ; 
Happiness now seems a phantom 

Of a joyous yesterday. 
If I could but live them over, 

All those careless, happy hours, 
Start again in life's fair morning 

O'er life's path of thorns and flowers, 
Not a moment would be wasted 

Chasing bubbles in the air — 
I would seek the pearls of knowledge, 

And the gems of wisdom wear. 

Could it be that those two spiders were endowed with 
human faculties, and that those faculties were now work- 
ing in unison, inspired by the same thought, the same 
feeling? I had little time to meditate this, for both 
wrote (I can't help saying they wrote) as rapidly as slow 
music goes, or about as rapidly as I am writing this; 
and the first spider had already begun the third stanza. — 
Could I live again those days 
That I spent in idle plays 



i6o THE TRANSFORMATION. 

And could know of learning's worth, 
I'd not waste my time in mirth ; — 

I would climb the hill of fame 
And on wisdom's wings would soar 

Till I caught the beacon flame 
In those happy days of yore. 

I then involuntarily turned to the other ; but finding 
that it had completed a page, as indeed both had done, 
I removed the finished sheet of the visible one and at 
the same instant and by the same act removed that of 
the psychologically visible one ; though- how this latter 
was accomplished even psychologists are at their wits' 
end to explain. Even to the close I continued thus to 
remove the finished sheets as soon as they were com- 
pleted. And now from the second I heard. — 

Had I known of wisdom's power 

In those days with pleasure fraught, 
From the mines of truth and beauty 

Golden trophies I'd have brought. 
All the lore of bygone ages 

From my books I would have learned ; 
O'er the bards I would have pondered 

Tho' my lamp till morning burned ; 
All the broad empire of Nature 

With its wealth of laws divine 
Should have shown to me the beauty 

Of Omnipotent design. 

While I listened to this, the first spider, apparently 

conscious of my abstraction, had waited; but on again 

bending my eyes in that direction, again the sad melody 

floated upwards and away to the heart-felt words. — 

Oh, my heart grows weak and faint. 
And it sighs in sad complaint 
As it dreams its dreams of woe 
Of the silent long ago. 



THE TRANSFORMATION. i6i 

And a pain is at my heart, 
Not alone for wisdom's lore, 

For 'twas pierced by sorrow's dart 
In those happy days of yore. 

What strange tale could this be I was listening to? I 
turned to the second weaver of words to mournful mel- 
ody, and caught the same spirit in these similar words. — 

I'd have read that revelation 

Traced by our Creator's hand 
Over all our glorious planet, 

In the sky and sea and land. 
High and bright the lamp of knowledge 

Shone for all who'd seek its light; 
Ah, how oft I scorned to seek it 

In the glare of pleasures bright ! 
Oft upon the dreary mountain 

Have my weary footsteps strayed: — 
But 'tis not for wisdom only 

That my vain regrets are made. 

So ! what a train of unutterable sadness the last words 
of each called up, suggesting some strange sorrow that 
must force itself into expression of sorrowing strains of 
music, timed to even sadder words. Ah yes ! to the 
first, listen! — 

She was like a radiant rose 
That with sweetness overflows. 
Her bright eyes w^ere darkest blue 
And her hair a golden hue. 

She was lovely as the day. 
And within her breast she bore 

Heart as light and bright and gay 
As those happy days of yore. 

Breathlessly I turned to the cadence of the other. — 

In those days of idle dreaming, 
Ere life's toils I'd entered in, 

12 



i62 THE TRANSFORMATION. 

Fanc}' framed for me an image 

Of the one I'd woo and win. 
It was in an idle romance 

My ideal played a part ; 
But that image, framed in fancy, 

Soon was graven on my heart. 
And I said, " That maiden only 

Of my ideal's charms complete 
Shall have power to lead me captive 

And to bring me to her feet. 

Ah, 'tis the old, old story that ever sings itself "in the 
human heart, the story of love. But can it be these 
spiders are human that they should thus weave their 
gold-enlighted words to silver chords of harmony ? 

Once more ! — To the first rhythmic weaver, a pleasing 
recollection. — 

We were playmates, she and I, 
In that happy time gone by: 
Oft we'd walk the meadows over 
Hunting for the four-leaved clover 

As we'd seen the lovers do; 
We the woods would oft explore 

Where the fragrant flowers grew 
In those happy days of yore. 

And then to the second, the same image, lifting up- 
ward and away, above the clover-blooms and forest- 
flowers of sweet memory, comes like the peace of a 
benediction ; and the words weave to quicker though to 
still sad notes. — 

Time passed on and boyish fancies 

Were by youth's bright hopes replaced; 

Gay companions were around me, — 
Every pleasure we embraced. 

And among those friends and schoolmates, 
There was one surpassing fair : 



THE TRANSFORMATION. 163 

Light her heart and light her footstep, 

Blue her eyes and gold her hair. 
Then her pure and gentle spirit 

Shone abroad like smiles from heaven. — 
Ah, such divine gifts of beauty 

Seldom are to mortals given. 

The first one had now finished two pages ; the second, 
three. How much more they would weave I neither 
knew nor thought. I was too much fascinated by the 
weirdness and reality of it all to think of anything but 
the two stories that were being thus wonderfully — thus 
psychologically though not supernaturally — revealed to 
me in beauty by ugly spiders that wrought together; 
each, I knew, unconscious of the other. This fact of each 
being imconscious of the words, thoughts, and music 
of the other, and the fact that the web of one was 
woven into characters to represent my handwriting, 
while that of the other was the illuminated work of my 
old chum, gave the two songs an interest that no one 
else can even approach. No, not even if the same sit- 
uation should present itself to him, and the spiders 
should be actually before him, as their work, robbed 
of all these fascinating features, now is. 

Both now wove more and more rapidly, and it was 
only when the first had woven the following whole page 
of manuscript that I turned to the other. — 

Oft when twilight slowly crept 
Over hill and vale that slept, 
We would wander side by side 
In the golden eventide 

By the school-house on the hill 
Where so oft we'd been before. 

Or beside the water-mill 
In those happy days of yore. 



l64 THE TRANSFORMATION, 

Oh those days, — sweet, happy days! 
Ever round my mind there plays 
Fitful Fancy's dear delight, 
Bringing back the time so bright 

When we wandered hand in hand 
To the little country store. 

And the mystic future planned 
In those happy days of yore. 

New years came as old ones went; 
Childhood's years at last were spent; 
We from friends to lovers grew 
And nor pain nor sorrow knew. 

Oh how fondly did I dream 
Folding close my fond Lenore 

As we sailed adown life's stream 
In those happy days of yore ! 

Here the sad-voiced dreamer paused a moment, then 
ghded to the top of the page and waited for me to re- 
move the leaf, while I read and half aloud chanted from 
the illuminated page of the other this master-melody : — 

When she came, 'twas like the sunbeam 

Shedding gladness o'er the lea; 
When she'd gone, 'tw^as like the ceasing 

Of enchanting melody. 
Oft when daily tasks were over. 

She and I together strolled 
From the hamlet to the seaside 

Where the restless billows rolled. 
Hours and hours we'd wander, gathering 

Treasures from the shifting sand 
As each ebbing tide receding 

Left its wonders on the strand. 

Long we'd watch the stately vessels 

Riding proudly o'er the foam, 
Some for distant countries steering, 

Some returning — bound for home. 



THE TRANSFORMATION. 165 

Then we'd seek the peaceful harbor 

Where our little sail-boat lay, 
And while skimming o'er the waters 

Laugh and sing the hours away. 
Then at twilight, when all nature 

Save the sea was hushed and still, 
We would turn our footsteps homeward 

To the hamlet on the hill. 

So pleasing was this recollection that I could not yet 
turn away, but listened rather than read, as the musi- 
cian continued on the next page ; for he had finished 
this, and the harmony continued unbroken. 

And that image framed in boyhood 

Of the one I'd woo and win, 
Ah, my ideal ! — I had found her 

In my darling Evylyn. 
But the dim, uncertain future! — 

Oh that we could raise the veil 
And by gazing down the valley 

Know what fortune would prevail ; 
Whether joy or blinding sorrow. 

Gladness or unending woe. 
Should forever be our portion 

While we linger here below. 

Two short summers I had known her. 

Years that seemed like one bright day ; 
But at last the spell was broken. 

And my gladness fled away : 
Duty called me from that hamlet 

Where youth's happy days were spent 
Out into the great, free, wide world, 

And with brightest hopes I went. 
Ah, that parting by the seaside 

One bright evening in the spring 
B)^ the dear old friendly ocean — 

There I gave the engagement ring. 



1 66 THE TRANSFORMATION. 

Just here a sharp pain in my right forefinger inter- 
rupted the music, and reminded me that I had not re- 
moved the completed page of the first harmony-breath- 
ing minstrel. I immediately did so, and at once the 
billows of subdued music swept through the room to the 
perfect time of the Aveaver's words in portentous min- 
strelsy. — 

In the bright and merry spring, 
Then I gave the engagement ring ; 
And m sweet and holy bliss 
Sealed our vow with Love's own kiss. 

Heart and hope and thought were one 
As we walked as heretofore 

Where the brooklet used to run 
In those happy days of yore. 

But the future none can tell 
And, or weal or woe, 'tis well; 
For, if it were otherwise, 
When the mystic veil should rise 

And reveal what is to come, 
Happiness would be no more ; — 

Hearts would call to hearts but dumb 
In those happy days of yore. 

Could we gaze on life's emprise, 
Frozen tears would dim our eyes ; 
Rippling laughs on lips would freeze 
As the future's death-cold breeze 

Chilled the life of loving hearts ; 
Happy days would come no more, 

And we'd sigh with fitful starts 
For those happy days of yore. 

Here I noticed the striking difference (the only dif- 
ference throughout the two poems) between the wishes 
of the two, both passionately and beautifully put, and 
paused a moment to grasp the full meaning. But only 



THE TRANSFORMATION. 167 

a moment, for I was too interested in this enchanting 
symphony to wait long-er. Already the poet in spider's 
form that was the more delicate, beautiful, and pathetic 
was continuing. — 

In a distant western city- 
Far away from that loved spot, 

I began the strife in earnest, 
Not complaining of my lot ; 

For in two years from our parting 
I'd return and claim my own. 

So I worked and dreamed and waited, 
Cheered by that one thought alone. 

Fortune smiled on my endeavors, 
And each week a message brought 

P'rom that one beside the seashore 
Who was ever in my thought. 

But at last the darkness gathered, — 

Clouds as dark as Ethiop's land. 
One dark day there came a letter 

Written by a stranger's hand. 
Evylyn, it said, was drooping. 

Drooping, fading very fast; 
Though she would admit no danger, 

Her short life would soon be past. 
' Many months, the message stated. 

She had faded day by day ; 
Yet to me each cherished letter 

Had been cheerful, bright, and gay. 

I found myself so in sympathy with the two spiders — 
or poets and musicians, rather, in spider form — that I 
pitied them deeply, and — shall I say ? — loved them. 
The first melodist continued more mournfully, and to 
slower, sad, and muffled music. — 

All the spring and summer long 
Did I list the seraph-song. 



1 68 THE TRANSFORMATION. 

But when autumn came around 
With a sighing, mournful sound, 

My sweet blossom faded fast ; 
And my radiant, fond Lenore 

Yielded to the chilHng blast 
In those autumn days of yore ! 

As the flowers fade and die 
'Neath the cold and cloudless sky, 
So m}' Darling drooped and died ! 
And my dear intended bride 

With a long and last farewell 
Crossed the silent waters o'er 

While we tolled her funeral knell 
In those parting days of yore ! 

In the deepest dearth of night 
When the starry dome was bright, 
Came the angels round her bed; 
And they numbered with the dead 

My angelic, radiant Love 
Whom the seraphs named Lenore, 

AVafting here away above, — 
Saddest, saddest days of yore ! 

I am not a man who easily gives way to feeling ; but 
the plaintiveness of the music and the mournfulness of 
the simple words made me forget the mysterious bard 
that was weaving this tale of pathos, and I bowed my 
head in sorrow, with my heart full of pity and love for 
both the afflicted and the noble-hearted sweet departed. 
As I did so, the threnodic notes, as if dying away in the 
echoing distance of the blue dome above, thus came 
from the heart of the other minne-singer. — 

With an aching heart I started 

For her home beside the sea, 
Once again to see my Darling 

Ere Death snatched his prize from me. 



THE TRANSFORMATION. 169 

But a cruel fate hung o'er me ; 

Ere I reached that eastern home, 
Her angelic soul was wafted 

Far beyond the starlit dome. 
Through the distant shining portals, 

Breathing of eternal love, 
Passed my Evylyn, my treasure, 

To the brighter world above. 

Surely, surely, I thought, these breathers of harmony 
cannot be ugly spiders. They are too human — or shall 
I say too divine? — for that. I had been so absorbed in 
the two songs that, strange perhaps to say, though I think 
not, I had scarcely noticed the spiders themselves nor 
their illuminated web-woven words. I felt now that 
the songs were nearly ended ; and through tear-dimmed 
eyes, I looked once more at the page on my desk. How 
strangely brighter the light seemed to be, yet so softer ! 

Could it be possible! Wasn't this, after all, some 
dream? — I dashed the tears from my eyes with my left 
hand. — No, I was wide awake. No doubt about that. 
There, too, that light from the words was even brighter 
than when it was seen through my tears. 

Surely, surely, these were not spiders; but spirits, 
rather, in this disguise. As this thought flew through 
my brain, I removed the fifth finished page of manu- 
script, when lo ! I almost screamed for mercy that no 
more revelations be made to me. For the spider glided 
to the top of the new page, and as he did so, I saw and 
marveled how much smaller he had grown, as if he had 
spun his whole body away in his glowing web. But 
still stranger transformation: All about him, like a 
spirit embodying the body, was a dim halo of light, such 
•as a star often forms of the mists, that doubtless had 



lyo THE TRANSFORMATION. 

been forming from the first although I had not noticed 
it, having been too absorbed in the songs themselves. 

As I looked steadily, transfixed by this new revela- 
tion, I saw that haloing light, as true as I live, shape 
itself in a half human form ; and like a light-enhaloed 
star moving across the scroll of the Almighty in spheric 
music set to angel words, this transformed being of 
light trembled across the page before me and trailed 
these gold-enlighted words through the solemn rhythm 
of the olden melody. — 

By the babbling little brook, 
In a quiet, shaded nook, 
Sleeps my loved and lost one now. 
Over pallid lip and brow 

Grow the scented flowers wild 
Bright as when I wandered o'er 

This same spot when but a child 
In those happy days of yore. 

Many years have come and gone 
Since that face I've looked upon ; 
Many weary paths I've trod 
Since we laid her 'neath the sod. 

Still I wander, sad and lone ; 
Still my heart is grieved and sore, 

For she sleeps beneath the stone 
Since those happy days of yore. 

Thoughts of the dead always affect me beyond ex- 
pression. The thought of the death of this darling girl^ 
glorious in her own true heart, I can but feel, and glori- 
fied even more by the unfailing constancy and eternal 
love of him who, grown old and gray, still keeps her 
ever in his heart, so affected me that my own heart 
seemed almost broken. I could endure no more, and 
turned away. But as I did so, — O sweet angels of 



THE TRA XSFORMA TION. 1 7 1 

mercy ! was there no escape ? — there the other heaven- 
gifted musician, spirit-embodied, halo-enshrouded like 
the first, met my eyes, and I was forced against my will 
to listen to the most plaintive, most pathetic melody 
that had yet grieved my heart. — 

In a grave down by the seashore,. 

She was laid by loving hands 
Where old ocean sings a requiem 

Evermore upon the sands. 
There the summer tide is flowing 

As I stand upon the shore, 
And it calls up sacred mem'ries 

Of the happy times of yore. 
Fragments of a wreck are drifting 

On the surface of a wave — 
Emblem of my hopes and prospects. 

Wrecked, and lying in her grave. 

Many weary years have vanished, 

Years of wand' ring, sad and lone, 
Since that pure angelic spirit 

Joined the seraphs round the throne. 
O'er her grave beside the ocean, 

Lovingly the stars still shine, 
While the tide's wild song of gladness 

Seems to bear her voice divine. 
Oft in dreams I see my lost one. 

Hear her voice as soft and low 
As a strain of far-off music ; — 

But the dawn brings back my woe. 

Bowed with unutterable grief, — grief that was so se- 
vere that it choked back every tear into my heart, — 
I buried my head in my arms to shut out both sight and 
sound, and wept as tearless grief alone can weep. The 
angel-images of the two that had gone Home, forever 
to await the happier marriage in eternal union there, I 



172 THE TRANSFORMATION. 

saw looking down compassionately, while the two 
mourners left behind were constantly reaching- upwards 
toward those loved ones beyond their ken in the dim 
unknown, and sometimes almost touching the finger- 
tips of the hands unseen ! Yes ; and the music ! I heard 
it over, and over, and over again, sometimes near, some- 
times far, always sweet and tremulous, sometimes 
sounding in my ear, sometimes dying away and echo- 
ing back from the the dome of that Home above. 

When again my fevered eyes looked upon the page, 
I wondered if it could be that these embodiments of 
both verse and music could be changing so rapidly, or 
if the change had been going on constantly without my 
notice. Both transformed — I know not now what to call 
them — had now become so small that I could scarcely 
distinguish their bodies through the spirit-like halo. 
And that halo every moment grew more and more 
human — no, not human ; but, though an embodying 
spirit, it grew more and more like a disembodied human 
soul. Less and less visible became the body of each, 
more and more like a human soul became the halo of 
each as the first wove itself away into the final web. — 

Oh, my heart is sad and lone 
And it sighs with heaving groan 
As it dreams its dreams of woe 
Of the silent long ago. 

But I've reached the river's brink; 
Soon I'll dip the golden oar, 

And beneath the waves will sink 
All those happy days of yore. 

Soon I'll greet my bright Lenore 
Where we'll meet to part no more; 
Soon I'll reach the golden sands 
Where I'll clasp her angel hands; 



THE TRANSFORMATION. 173 

Soon I'll kiss her seraph brow 
On that bright angelic shore, 

Where I'll dream no more, as now, 
Of those happy days of yore. 

The two spirits, thus transforming, were passing" 
away, slipping, slipping away from me back into the 
mysteriousness whence they came, I felt, as both moved 
across the page to dirge-like yet a kind of happy and 
hope-inspiring music. The music of each was so 
blended with that of the other that I could scarcely 
distinguish the words of the two as the second soul- 
dreamer mused through the fnelody. — 

Lost ! ah lost ! — But not forever : 

I have reached the golden strand ; 
Soon beyond the crystal ocean 

We will wander hand in hand ; 
Soon across the deep, dark waters 

I will go to claim my own 
From among the shining angels, 

Where she waits for me alone. 
We will part no more forever 

Underneath that heavenly dome ; 
Love and joy shall reign together 

In that bright eternal home. 

But look — look! — there, there just before you. See! 
see it struggling to rise away. Oh, what wonderful 
transformation can this be ! 

As both neared the close, their bodies grew imper- 
ceptible, the web-woven words more and more brightly 
illuminated, and the haloing spirit larger, and larger, 
more and more distinct, yet more and more attenuated, 
until — no, no ! it — but yes ! I must believe it, must be- 
lieve my eyes ! — each took on the form of an angel ! As 
the last word of each was woven, simultaneously, and 
as the low, faint, plaintive echoes of the music went 



174 THE TRANSFORMATION. 

trembling through the blue distance that still trem- 
bles in unison with the hearts of millions, the two 
meister singers^ perfect in angel form with a rarer 
beauty than I ever saw before, the rarest beauty I ever 
expect to see, shone radiantly in the night for a mo- 
ment, like a glory struck out of darkness by a beam 
from heaven, and vanished like that glory passing out 
of darkness into heaven again. With my eyes following 
these disembodied embodiments of Beauty, and my 
palms out-reaching toward them, thus I sat until, when 
their passing glory at the same time closed the portals 
through which they vanished and gave the keys to 
memory, my nerves relaxed, the intense mingled pain 
and rapture, which had never ceased, seemed to snap 
my very heart-chords, and consciousness slid like lead 
into the lethean flow of the river of oblivion. 

How long I sat there, drowned in unrefreshing for- 
getfulness allied to sleep, I have no recollection, and no 
possible means of knowing. When again I opened my 
eyes, the morning was far spent. There was a dull pain 
in my head, but the circumstances I have just related 
were all so vivid that the whole scene instantly flashed 
across my mind. I thought surely it must be a dream. 
Could it be? I was sitting in my night-dress. I got up 
from my chair and went to my bed-room. There was 
my bed, just as I had left it when I rose to follow the 
strange spirit that controlled me. I went to the wall 
where I had seen the spider. True enough, there was 
the thread, but no longer illuminated, just where I had 
seen it. I put my hand to my forehead as one often 
does in wondering. When I removed it, there, clinging 
to my forefinger, was the web that had clung to my 



'THE TRANSFORMATION. 175 

forehead. 1S[q, I had not begn asleep and dreamed all 
this; that was plain enough. I returned to my chair. 
There on my desk, as I involuntarily glanced at the well- 
remembered spot, I saw a still more remarkable confir- 
:mation of my having been awake ; for there lay the 
"Vvhole poem that I had seen woven by the first spirit, as 
perfect in everyway as if it had been written by human 
liand. But the characters were no longer illuminated. 
'They had burnt into the paper, and were as black as my 
*own ink. They were all made out, too, in my own style 
tof handwriting, though I declare and affirm to all the 
mT'orld that never before this occurrence had I written 
tone line of poetry. Perhaps it would have been better 
for:me and for you if I had stopped with this — palmed 
iit off as my own on account of the similarity of hand- 
^writing ; and if I had never trifled with the tricks of the 
anuses thereafter. 

J looked on my desk for the other poem, but alas! 
it couLd not be found;; for, as I have said before, it was 
-only psychologically present to me, while it was really 
■present to some one else. In a few days I had the most 
Temarkable confirmation' of this — even more remarkable 
tthan what I have related in the preceding. 

By .the very next mail (I was teaching in the country 
-and got my mail but once a week, on Saturday) I re- 
•cervTed a letter from my old chum, dated May 8, 1885. 
-As 1 opened it, behold ! that identical poem that I had 
in my mind seen wrought by the second spirit of beauty 
fell on my table. In a letter of sixteen quarto pages, 
he toldime substantially the same experience of himself 
with .two spirit-singers — one of them present, the other 
■^psychologically present, each unconscious of the other, 



176 THE TRANSFORMATION. 

yet each influencing the other in some indefinable way 
— as I have here related. 

In speaking of the vanishing of the two spirit-forms, 
he wrote: — 

' ' I firmly believe those two spirits were none other 
than the angel-forms of the two maidens the poems cele- 
brate ; that they have woven their spirits of beauty into 
these two embodiments of verse that we mortals may 
be the better for it ; and that, when they vanished, they 
entered these two poems, where they still abide." 

Strange, but this is the same thought that I had had, 
and still do have. I most sincerely believe it is the only 
correct conclusion, though I cannot solve the mysteries 
that are connected with it. Indeed, it would be sacri- 
lege to attempt it. 

I still have these original manuscripts that were thus 
mysteriously wrought. They are lying here on the 
desk before me as I write ; and as I glance across this 
page at them, the whole scene of that memorable night, 
more vivid, far, far more vivid than my pen has deline- 
ated it for you, comes flashing across my brain. In this 
quick, bright light of memory, reason marshals the long 
line of causes that produced this psychological phenom- 
enon ; I follow the approaching lines with my mind's 
eye, until I am lost in the dim distance of their vanish- 
ing perspective, then return, follow again, only to lose 
myself in the same unfathomable mystery, and so again 
and again. Though I know some of the causes that 
produced ife^ I cannot reach the hidden ones. I could 
almost fancy still that I had dreamed all this did not 
these original manuscripts before me constantly remind 
me of the reality of what I have here set down. They 



THE TRANSFORMATION. 177 

are free for the inspection of all who wish to verify the 
facts I have related. 

I challenge the world to produce two such similar 
poems, good, bad, or indifferent, written under such re- 
markable circumstances. 

The events I have here recorded are the events of my 
boyhood, or early manhood, rather, faithfully told. I 
have long hesitated to publish them for fear that there 
might be a few in these days of fiction who would doubt 
their reality. But what makes them a hundredfold 
more wonderful to me is the truth of all their seem- 
ingly impossible facts. 

My friend, you think this a strange, strange story, I 
know. Indeed, I think so too ; far more strange to me 
than to you, for I have felt the truth of it and you have 
only read it. As true as these two poems exist, the cir- 
cumstances under which they were written are far, far 
more strange to me than I can possibly make the story ; 
far, far more strange to me than the weirdest, most 
wonderful story pen can write. 

I have therefore published this account of an inci- 
dent of my life that it may please some with the 
strange facts that they will take for mere fancy ; that it 
may waken some to the knowledge that in our most 
rational moments we are by no means independent, our 
minds are by no means our own, but are influenced by 
circumstances, by the psychological action of the minds 
of our most intimate friends, and by the spiritual power 
within us and at the same time above us ; that it may 
teach others that out of the most despised creatures of 
God's making and care, the Soul of Beauty may cofne and 
wed itself to Use by weaving its life into an angel-image 
of Love that shall dwell in the human heart forever. 
13 



178 BOY BARDS. 

BOY BARDS. 

TO E. L. H. 

Together we thought, 

Together we wrought ; 

And ever and ever 
The golden days were fraught 
With the light and life of Time 

That dripped like dews 

From the heart of our Muse 
Between the buds of rhyme. 

Oh never, no never 
Such rainbow colors were caught 
From the dripping clouds in pain — 

So sweet distraught 

With the iris wrought 
Of the mingled shine and rain. 

Oh never, no never 
Such scent in the summer was caught 
From the morning-glory's bloom 

Where the humming-bird 

Has gently stirred 
The leaves by the open room. 

THE GREATEST THING ON EARTH. 

I. 

FROM SUN TO SUN. 

From sun to sun 
Till life is done 
We still aspire, 

Still have some wish not gratified ; 



THE GREA TEST THING ON EARTH. 179 

With every breath — 
E'en unto death — 
We still reach higher, 

Our hearts are still unsatisfied. 



II. 

WHAT THE STRIVING? 

What means this striving, 
This toil, this endless labor, 
This bargaining with our neighbor, 
This too fast living, 

This wishing, this longing. 
This constant thronging 
Of thoughts of — what? 
Gods ! I know not ! — 
What means it all. 

Philosopher, 
This rise and fall, 
This hope and fear. 
This constant changing station 
Of every man and nation. 
Or rich 
Or poor, 
With koh-i-noor 
Or bacon flitch. 
Still envying some other, 
Still striving 'gainst some brother 
And justling 
And hustling 
And rushing 
And pushing 



i8o THE GREA TEST THING ON EARTH. 

As by a mighty cyclone hurled 
Headlong midway the narrow world, 
And as it were 

Made all too small 
For half to gyrate in, 
Or even half begin — 
What means it all. 
Philosopher? 

The rich, the poor. 
The high, the low, 
The good, the bad, 
(And who can tell?) 
Keep bickering 
And dickering 
And chaffering 
On everything 
They buy and sell 
For more and more 
Of earth, as though 
Gone staring mad. 

Whether the cause 
Be tmequal laws 
Of God, or man, or neither one, or both, 
Activity o'ermatching tardy sloth, 
Some must rise and some must fall 
In the strife of all for all. 

III. 

THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH OURS. 

That there should be imjust division 
Of wealth and life and station 



THE GREATEST THING ON EARTH. i8i 

Needs, calm, deliberate decision 
Of every man and nation. 

The world is too much ours, 
And we too much of it. 
The times are out of joint; 
The heart is out of tune, 

And needs the Master's hand. 
Like churlish curs we stand 
And guard our little own. 
And watch Death's finger point 
To Woes, while Pleasures sit 
And glass the glossing hours. 

Like demons, too, we rave 
Because our neighbors have 

One jot or tittle more than we; 
And curse ourselves as slaves 
Dumb driven to our graves 

Fast bound from light of liberty. 

The remedy lies not in force. 
Nor in the frenzy of the hour 

Engendered by the unreasoning mob. 
' Tis in a nobler, gentler course 
Of a higher, nobler power 

New-born at every true heart-throb. 

IV. 

HAND AND HEART. 

No vain philosophy. 
That flows from ailing springs of earth 



i82 THE GREA TEST THING ON EARTH. 

Can cure the cankered ills of mortal clay. 
No, naught save that eternal fountain's spray- 
That gives the heart immortal birth 
Can heal humanity. 

In every heart at birth 

That fountain bubbles up 
To purify this earth 

With life and love and hope. 

But in the hearts of all, 

Ere life is scarce begun. 
Some clay of earth must fall 

To dim the mirrored sun. 

True, all ('tis law) must labor; 

But with the hand alone? 
And that against a neighbor. 

His heart our stepping stone? 

Nay, with the hand and heart, the rather; 

For each who climbs above 
Must reach the door of Him our Father 

On stepping-stones of love. 

V. 

COURTING THE CROWD. 

Our wrongs we make that make us wrong : 
We court the crowd ; we tickle the public ear ; 
The crowd laughs, and we laugh with it always ; we're 

Mere puppets dandled by the throng. 

We jingle our laughter, — 
The world follows after 



THE GREA TEST THING ON EARTH 183 

As if it were money ; 
We bow in our sorrow, — 
The world bids "good-morrow," 

Hey-nonny hey-nonny. 

We praise and we flatter, — 
The world with a clatter 

Comes after the honey ; 
We ask when we're needy, — 
The world is too greedy, 

Hey-nonny hey-nonny. ^ 

We're loved while we're living 
If always we're giving 

The world something funny ; 
But dead, there's erected, 
A stone, — then neglected, 

Hey-nonny hey-nonny. 

So, so ! the world is all a cheat 

And yet we worship at its feet. 
Deceived by dross of gold and gloss of art, 
We too much court the hand and not the heart. 

VI. 

IMMORTAL AND GOD-GIVEN. 

Sowing and reaping. 
Glutting our greed, 
Getting and keeping, 
What do we need? 

World ever spinning. 
World never slack. 



1 84 THE GREA TEST THING ON EARTH. 

World ever winning, 
What does it lack? 

—What? 
What not?— 
— The greatest thing on earth, 

The greatest, too, in heaven above, 
The greatest good of greatest worth. 
Immortal and God-given, — 

Love! 

Love that bids no stricken soul depart 
With honeyed, sweet "good-morrow"; 

Love that binds and balms the wounded heart 
And sorrows, too, with sorrow. 

Love that loves in field or shop or kirk, 

Unselfish and ungreedy; 
Love that teaches toilless hands to work. 

And leaves no mortal needy. 

Love that ne'er forgets a heart that sleeps, 

Nor leaves its tomb neglected ; 
Love that laughs and weeps and ever keeps 

The throne of Love erected. 

VIL 

ASKING HEARTS. 

This pushing, 
This driving, 

This rushing, 

This too fast living- 
Is an endless striving 



THE GREATEST THING ON EARTH. 185 

Resulting from unsatisfied desire: 
No peace, no rest, 
An endless quest, 
Porever reaching up for something higher, — 
For the world is good by nature, 
And though debased, still looks above. 
(The heathen even hopes beyond this earth. ) 
Stamped in every line and feature. 
There is the image still of Love, 
Sweet Love, fast-graven in the heart at birth. 

Our lives-long our asking hearts keep fretting : 

We beat the tangles of the world's wide wild-wood, 

Remorsefully and endlessly regretting 

The loss of that sweet innocence of childhood. 

"The world is like us. — We are it! 

Time-long the noisy nations of the earth 
Have searched, and only found regret 

At the loss of Love the child- world had at birth. 

And so, we strive, and strive, — we know not why. 
And not attaining what the heart would have. 
We set the hand to work ; we sweat and slave ; 
Allured by lights around earth's narrow zone 
That, followed, fly, we follow on and on ; 
For fame and wealth and power we barter away 
Our lives ; we would be gods : but mortal clay 
Still clings about our feet, still drags us down. 
And fetters us to earth without a crown. 
And so, still unattaining all through life, 
We follow still the bootless, mortal strife, 

And laugh, and weep, and flatter, and fret, and — die ! — 
Die still unsatisfied, 
Some wish not gratified! 



1 86 THE GREATEST THING ON EARTH:.. 

VIII. 

THE CROWNING GLORY. 

Labor night and day 
Howsoe'er we may 

And toil 

And moil 
With ceaselesss sweatings 
Forever fretting, 

Still coping 

In endless strife 

And hoping 
An easier life, 
Yet with it all 
Result must fall 

Far short of aspiration. 

' Tis the great Law of laws. 
Nor far to seek the cause ; 
For in our heart of hearts we know 
The Law of Life must needs be so- 
That man may climb 
Through changing time 
Above this clod 

Of mouldy mortal earth 
Back unto God, 

His home of love at birth,. 
And find in endless life 

Above 
The crown of all our strife 

Is Love, 
— The crown of all creation. 

W 18 




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